Aren’t you cold?

I.
Me?

the wind swept up the solemn yellow leaves, along with my
solemn yellow feet,
and dusted off the crumbs of yester-was
and yester-would
from the hem of my puffer...

Well,
listen.

I hold your heart in my hand,
it holds itself in my palm,
my palm holds itself onto your heart…
Hold your eyes a bit longer and soon, you too,
can hold mine…

So, no.

(Silence. I shivered from the core, to no avail)

II.
Me?

Meanwhile, Amber October and Brown November lie like crumpled,
dryad carcasses beside my feet.

Hm, I said,

I lament!
the skin on my fingers have frittered away from
countless, dead hours
in colorless computers,
but alas, not from the cold.

(trite)

Hmm, I said,

the skin on my fingers
hangs like a nail.
Never have I thought an unwise flick of a wrist could render me an onion.

(Dear Lord)

A curt laugh, cheap,
cheap-cheap, like the swallows.

but yes,
I am
alright.

(Silence. We both shivered from the core, to no avail)