you tell me that you grew up
in a hundred degrees of heat
all year round as i describe to you what it feels like to be cold
and the jacket of snow that
continues to weigh down the
evergreen branches
you realize that you’ll be utterly
freezing when you come up here
to see me one of these days
and what i don’t tell you is that
you won’t be cold at all because
i’d sooner die than let jack frost lay one of his mischievous little fingers
on your beautiful and eternally
sun kissed skin