My shoulders were deliciously bare to the cold.
I could feel the snow falling,
lightly kissing my arms with icy wet caresses.
What was it about the moon
that made me love you that much more?
Just knowing it was there,
its quiet contemplation of figures down below
gave it all such a gloriously rich
sense of abandon.
I acutely felt that the only thing holding me to earth
was the firm grip of your hand,
and yet,
without your touch I was sure
I would have tumbled miserably into reality.
I wasn’t aware of the pink silk of my dress,
which had grown heavy with clumps of ice.
I could only watch the mesmerizing collection of white powder
on your broad shoulders,
startling in its contrast
to the deep black of your dinner jacket.
We stopped running when we could just see the stone steps
And the grand building
as if it was a far off sight-
remote from us, disconnected.
You pulled me in close, and laid the smooth silk of your jacket around my shoulders. “Are you cold?” You asked.
Cold?
Yes, I was certainly cold.
I could feel the hot blood pulsing in my arms, though.
My skin tingled with sensation.
Like every other feeling right then,
coldness was something luxurious,
something that took on a brighter meaning
because all my senses were aware
of how much I adored you.