every time my phone dings that chime I set,

our patterend steps have been
evenly paced
but sometimes i miss
a few, just so our hands won’t
graze
— a metronome
back and forth.

though I’d still steal
a glance from it: soft
fingers on keys, light wrist
on the right beat,
slender
palms fit
in my sweater sleeve.

wondering, how
quickly it can
thaw the frost in mine;
and before my boiling belly
boil over  
surrendering the
mistletoe nose;

how many are missing the same warmth I have yet to hold.