That running of cold up your spine into your scalp that seeps out the follicles of your head making you sit upright and be so aware of yourself, that is love.

The way a flower holds on the the very last withered soft brown petal during the first frost because it can’t let go, that is love.

and I’m not sure which of us is the withered petal
probably both of us
but we’re hanging on so tight
and that cold that spills out of our heads
brightens your eyes with that
amber soul so old and trapped in
sap for hundreds of years, preserved just for me
just long enough for that sweet cushion of emotion
and past turmoils to ripen into a
tender moldy soul with a shy
origin that bursts into a rich and the
fruity flavor of the tang of rusted metal
and when our skin touches
I swear that we are the sparks of the aurora borealis
a single organism in ecstasy

and that is what it’s like to love you.