You look lost, a stitched-woman, voiding the wind in your hair. Like face-free-eyes lighting a temple in their reflection you glare knotted in fall-spokes dreaming of winter. -Tea is steaming from your glass - God has turned left-hand memories into ports beneath skin filling in the dreams of your frozen hair, like veins. A gold-oil spills from your lips as you breathe in my mouth - Your glass still steaming -
When you come back: Will lay me in your reflection and listen for the sound of my hair in your hands?