the lines of the grates in the radiator
imprint onto the backs of my legs
people shuffle through the lobby,
swishing peacoats and snowflakes
dripping from their hoodies. i curl
my fingers around the phone
and press you closer to my ear.  

i've always wanted you closer.
you're tangled in earbuds
on the bus, arm wrapped
through the straps of your bag.
you wear someone else's grey
varsity sweater, red letters marked
across the chest. you lock
your windows before you go
to sleep, white paint chipping
and painting your nails.
your goodnights are eclipses of
the daring day stepping out
without clothes and reminding me
it's time to stop with you.

"i think i'm going to get help"
you rasp, and i am silent as a family
toddles through, children clinging
onto the swollen mittens at their
mothers' sides. i swallow and
lean against the wall, sit against
the radiator, cross my ankles
over the blowing heat.