the cold, bitter wind
grasps our faces with its icy fingers
and paints our cheeks cotton-candy-pink
as you tuck your chin
into your itchy-warm sweater

we watch a fluttering moth
with crêpe paper wings
and a dream of reaching the
cratered wisdom of the moon
but it settled for
the harsh fluorescence
of an ugly street lamp

its celestial dreams were abandoned
for disenchanted, grayscale realities

our hands entangle
as cold as snakes’ bellies
and as your chestnut eyes
follow the moth’s
despairing circles around the
artificial brightness of the
mocking street lamp,
I realize
you sympathize

I gently nuzzle
into your itchy-warmth
and anxious-cold shivers
as I silently wish for you
to one day reach your moon