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A Touch of Snow
August 23, 2012
Your bitterly cold fingers
Reach out to me,
Tangle themselves in my hair;
They reach for my own,
Trying to intertwine
Yours and mine.
Stay away from me;
Do not gently touch
Your wandering white lips
To my nose that wishes to stay warm.
Others may revel in you,
But to me, you are most certain death.
Your breath stops me in my tracks;
Deathly, painful.
Forced to walk in your shoes,
They pinch at my toes,
My feet too large for your tiny shoes.
The only thing
That keeps me trudging through our—
Relationship—
Is the thought of warmth
That waits ahead.
© Kyle M., Marblehead, MA
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