with taffy wrapped across your scull for warmth, you look at me in secret glances —there, beneath your heavy eyelashes—that make my heart flutter so ironically like the soft shake of my bed when snow drops from the sky in chunks.
you are still the same pile of bones but flushed and grown, still the same gentle glow, but now are close enough for me to feel your warmth, and for me to become wrapped inside of your exhale.
even if I am only using tears to hide from the wind, they are better than bare-***** chill, or the helplessness of true winter , darkness , space.
how full can one mug be of slowly climbing steam and the gentle loss of speech? it rises until it is at the ceiling, and it sits there taunting my empty lips with calm silence, embarrassed touches, accidental movements until we are only pretending to hide behind walls that we are only pretending exist.
I do not know how many times we will need to close our eyes or how many times you will reach for my cold fingertips, but these things are irrelevant (immaterial) (unrelated) (extraneous) (beside the point) and the doors that come unlocked open to cliffs, the steps we take cause us to fall eternally, spinning into blissful "nothingness"/"somethingness."
there is no space between the lines we carve ourselves unless we fall asleep too early or we decide to go out for food instead of writing down our futures in pen.