.
when I was little,
  i found that in a in a certain frame or light,
snow can look an awful lot like shooting stars.
so maybe the cold months aren't so bad,
and I hope you'll stay with me through the winter.
it's likely you'll seek solace in the storm outside,
in order to escape how cold i've grown to be.
it's not my fault.

some times
  i will want to drive in the middle of the night and watch the snowflakes rush at me
like so many misled embers and try to remember
  to save as many kisses for when it's warmer.
disregarding the fact
that shooting stars
are not stars,
that if I turned my headlights off i wouldn't feel guilty,
that you do not
love me.

i want you strapped in beside me
so I can remember to keep my eyes on the road,
and you can count every frozen anomaly for me
as they melt on the windshield, remind me later,
and i will quietly wish for each of them to have the same mass as a car
  or that we're traveling through space like they do in the movies.
it depends on the day.
it's not my fault.

but please don't speak.
don't speak of God or the infinite
or ponder if they are one and the same,
or say something clever about the snow, how all these kisses are wasted on glass,
don't think of how terribly
romantic
it would be
if our law of lips
and tongues caused us to crash.
don't try and get to know me better when it's too cold to get out of bed.
It's not your fault that i don't want to let you in.
because
i bargained for a savior when we first traded smiles
and what i saw scared me half to death.