That Winter

6 Jan

I miss the cold.

I miss the mental count of rhythmic step,    the beat
of frosted footprints

through crackling
along the street.

…The sleet.


and Oh-

The anticipated warmth of your bed
after the slow,
silky slap of


I miss the clear drip
from my nose.

Hands in gloves,
Scarf neck hugs,
Visible breath that grows.

I would make hot
And you would drink cups of black

And we’d make lunch and love
lay down and shove
your cold feet
between the sheets
and my legs-

They never stopped shivering.




Say Something About This... Or, you know, just something. In general. About anything.

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: