Tom Collins
Bing Crosby
Calamari
Purity
Quintessence

There is now only a faint, fingernail-sized memory
of the thin girl standing under a street lamp in the snow
in light hair and a long red coat
with blue eyes that felt a warm brown

she didn't like winter
but wore it well
with snowflake lined lashes
and tiny, cold hands hoping to be held

her thin red lips were Christmas after a month of storms
Her eyes a warm
furnace fueled with hope.
They thawed the ice that clung to my own

the hope that had been left too long on my skin
and had become stiff and cold
now tingling
as it gained feeling again

we drank.
we sang.
we ate.
we felt.
we were.