do you like the cold?' you ask,
and i say i don't mind it,
but i hate the cage of sweaters,
and the warmth of the coffee
we always drink, around noon
and i hate the nights
when you seek summer
in my desperation
all hands and thorns and wet lips
while i shiver,
under the heat of
your skin,
'what about the rain?'
and i say i don't mind it,
all the water and puddle jumping
reminds me of death,
and lilies, like a trap,
and how your tea burns my throat,
but i'd never tell you that,
'do you like summer, then'
and i say i don't mind it,
i guess i hate,
the unfamiliarity
of warmth,
and words slipping all over the kitchen surface,
but the cold, is nice
and hard and safe
'do you like the cold', you say
i suppose i do
it has been four years
and it's always winter in your arms.