on your head
as dandruff, shakes off
in bed. And it falls all over
me as snow on the old oak tree.

The frost
on your lashes
are frozen crystals
from all the years you
cried. They solidified.

The frost
on your lips
have sunken ships. You’ve
icebergs as teeth. You’re breath
an artic blast, even a polar bear
couldn’t fare.

The frost
on your hands
are hockey rinks. Every finger
is an icicle stick. This heart
the puck you bat around. I’m flying
high on the ground.