It's warm here, close to you, but my hands
are cold. They say
cold hands                            (warm heart)
so that could possibly explain away what's past
with something a little more than
the stencil marks and sterile string
sewing me and all my fault lines in
to shapes, telling stories on my skin?

They will always tell on me, telling tales
on my head, to different heads,
about wherever my head has been,
but still, you take my cold hands between
your own warm hands and I don't know
if its the cold or the heat that seems
to make my cheeks go red,
but we rely on friction to make things warm.

It's a strange thing to think that there is a way
but it only works because of all the ways that won't-
when nothing fits together, but this.