My perfect winter:
precious in how
the summer still
seems to
simmer within
the metro station’s
humidity.
Even if the palm trees
still do shake
alongside the rhythm
of the wind,
my perfect winter
is hot—
pink like the day-ends
of summer solstice.
They are brown like
the sugar in
how you speak
to me,
sweetened.
Orange for
the lengths
of a coral sky right
before 6 o’clock.

And perhaps
I cannot know
a more
perfect season
until I’ve spent
time away
from my orange,
brown, and pink
winters.
But for now,
I will shiver
at 75 degrees,
I will chatter my
teeth at
this humidity—
so that I may
take your hands
in my own for
warmth,
and so that I
never forget the
coarseness of your
skin during
the most perfect
time of year.