My cold hands are meant to be wrapped in yours.
Isn’t it funny how I associate you with warmth?
How a home is not a building, but a person,
a memory, recycled in one’s head,
doing the planet a justice,
by consuming a feeling, and the only exhaust
is sighs; turned smoke in winter’s chill.
This is the type of weather where people are meant to draw close,
and all that jazz.
I can’t imagine you liking Christmas carols,
though I can imagine being at your side,
cloaked in your warmth.
Maybe with coffee;
I’d hope you’d take it black,
so you can focus this time,
and not forget.
I’d rather stare into flames…
or would I?
‘Cause the only other option left is looking straight into your eyes.
Eyes that made mine light up like candles in windows of suburban houses
during Christmas time.
The timed ones though,
because plug-ins mean commitment,
and before I knew it, the timer ran out,
and out you walked with them.
The only good thing about this cold,
about the illness that comes with the season,
and the whiteness of a land consumed by snow,
is that I can picture you with me,
while I’m watching the snow blow off the the boughs of the trees,
your arms around my waist,
icicles dripping, beauty turned to waste,
and my hands, my freezing fingers entwined with yours,
though the rest of me, in my house which remains at a steady 57 degrees,
is fully, entirely, blessedly warm.