It’s a January night:
we are walking down windswept streets
with windswept hair adorned with white jewels,
carried into the night as if spellbound;
so, what do I do when you tuck my hand in
the crook of your arm? I walk with you that way,
in the dark of the forest at midnight, a coffee in
my right hand and my left tangled with you.

We throw our coffees into the night, and laugh;
what a terrible thing to do! — the poor forest! —
but there’s a brief high when we realize no one else
is awake but us in this lonely forest, no one to yell,
no one to criticize how I press my lips in the crook of
your neck and whisper sweet promises in your reddened ear
in the deep shadow of an oak tree crystalized by snow.

For a small infinity, we carry on walking, saying nothing,
the deep silence of the midnight forest swallowing us whole.
Windswept, two small universes exist in our minds;
yet, in these two universes the same song is imagined
again and again, without the other knowing—if only we knew
then that our love was reflective—if only we knew then:

How beautiful you were that January night,
windswept like the snow.