"I like my men cold, dark, and handsome," you say,
and I tell you I have the cold and dark parts
down pat, but I struggle with the handsome bit.

You shrug and let me in anyway, most likely
figuring I’ll get better-looking the more you
drink, but that isn’t going to happen, my dear.

You’ll have to settle, I’m afraid, which I know
makes you cringe, but there’s nothing to be done.
Your core temperature plummets as I wrap

my arms around you and the light bleeds away.
Someone is crying--it could be either one of us.
Before your eyes close, you whisper, "You’re not so bad."