What felt warmer, I cannot tell —
your hand resting on my cheek,
or the cold wind biting my skin
where my favorite stranger
froze us in time.
What felt safer, I cannot tell —
the way you held me tight that night,
or sitting beneath vast glass windows at an airport,
in an unfamiliar country,
as the last light of day
painted itself across my skin.
What felt deeper, I cannot tell —
the night you pored out your heart to me,
or the fjords I saw from the plane,
that stole my breath
as we descended into the
clouded city.
And I lied — three times.
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 11:41 AM UTC
What felt warmer, I cannot tell —
your hand resting on my cheek,
or the cold wind biting my skin
where my favorite stranger
froze us in time.
What felt safer, I cannot tell —
the way you held me tight that night,
or sitting beneath vast glass windows at an airport,
in an unfamiliar country,
as the last light of day
painted itself across my skin.
What felt deeper, I cannot tell —
the night you pored out your heart to me,
or the fjords I saw from the plane,
that stole my breath
as we descended into the
clouded city.
And I lied — three times.
Request permission to use this poem