I wouldn't say I wasn't hoping--
wondering what it'd be like--
to strike the band up, strike a spark
and set your amber eyes alight.

The night was warm. I almost froze up.
You flowed through my awkward ice.
We walked home laughing,
                             I was fading.
                             Drenched...

Your voice was red wine on the night...

                                           I'm alive;
                           I guess the Winter lost one.
                Scraping frost off a tarnished record, now.
                                     Spin the season.
                          Warming up to Springtime.
             Pour out beside me under iron purple clouds.

I kept a cask of my best stories
fermenting for nights like this,
to fill your glass, distill the tension,
drown the thirst of shots we'd missed.

The night wore on. You told the Winter,
"Smiles're mine--you keep the rest."
We thawed the town out
                          with a buzzing
                          warmth

spread through our drunk and laughing chests...

                                                      ­              Orange Street
                                                          ­          bridge.
                                               ­                     Melting in the dark.
                                                           ­         Lots cast:
                                                           ­         two stones in the Clark Fork.
                                                           ­         Walk back,
                                                           ­         we're
                                                  ­                  run-off from downtown.
                                                       ­             Four sheets,
                                                         ­           after
                                                                ­    breezes, get turned down.

                                        I'm alive;
                           I guess the Winter lost one.
                Scraping frost off a tarnished record, now.
                                     Spin the season.
                          Warming up to Springtime.
             Pour out beside me under iron purple clouds.

                                 Nothing gained
                       worth a ****'s assured, so
                tip a glass, tilt a grin and angle home.
                               A thousand lights
                       pinned to night, 6 blocks left.
     We're catching up. Where'd our mislaid footsteps go?
            
                       Led us right here, I suppose.