the air is not quite winter-cold
but the wind cries names
into my open window
          - interrupts my nights

she knows
          - the wind -
the liminal stillness of a dark room
and a warm bed
when words are not quite
words spoken
meaning explained away
with a smile and a laugh
and a promise of rationality
in the morning

she whispers
soft raised skin against my sheets
when the warmth of the room
comes from the sound of you
and a flicker of light
on a cellphone screen