Pattern the ice with your collarbones. Showers of lavender hidden in your hiking boots. Hang stamps from your doorframe, the snow will melt someday. The taste of words bounced out of your mouth last Sunday evening. Shrugging off the sun from the duck pond to the sand caught between your sock and shoe. I’ve been memorizing deep breaths and the way hair curls. The keyboard knows your v-neck and the cocoa powder park.
Strong perfume can’t be appreciated under the milky way. I fixed blue green eyes on New Year’s, one side of the collared shirt turned in, steam rolling hair and too much straw.
Old shoes filled with cinnamon sit on 4:17pm with an unmade bed of sour green vertebrae. The city at night, a crescendo, explodes in silence, hot tea and warm mugs tuning campfires built from matches. Thursday sunrises balancing on wool sweaters and the smell of fabric softener. The early morning hurricane over worn wood and wet pavement sounds of winter. The snow’s just trying to be human.