“It’s cold out,” you said that morning,
and I wondered when we’d been reduced
to small talk, as if the cold ever bothered us.

“Yeah. It’s only getting colder.”
You shivered, as if my words were controlling
the weather, my breath gaseous ice.

“Hard winter this year.”
Yes, I thought. Just like last winter.
But, I didn’t bring it up because the distance
between us was already a downhill ski *****,
and one simple mistake could make us crash.

“I hope spring comes soon.”
I wasn’t crazy about spring, but you were.
The cold pierced skin and rattled bones,
But it didn’t stab hearts with icicles.
Nature was hardly as harsh as you–
it was this, this unspoken
year packed into meaningless words
about the weather – of all things – just
to keep the peace.

So I wished for spring,
because I thought it might please you.
But I didn’t want spring. I wanted to rush
past straight to summer. I couldn’t stand
the cold anymore – this cold – the type
expressed in us, as if we were two icebergs
drifting away, silent arctic waters between us.

I wanted heat, the type that makes icecream
melt in a blink and drip onto the sparkling
sidewalk, the blinding heat that burns
cue marks through sunglasses.

You smiled. “Me too,” you said,
but I knew you didn’t understand me –
you had already drifted off,
far away, closer to land than I.
Closer to closure.
You only spoke of spring.