******* hell why’s it so cold
i can’t tell whether the fold
my lips compel kiss the cold
or miss the swell of summers old.

my hands are dead
but moving still—
couldn’t feel lead
if they’d given a pill.

my hair is stiff
but flowing still—
even hands can’t sift
my hair’s bobbing fill.

my eyes are red
but seeing still—
the understated
“i’m not crying by will”.

but despite the dryness of the air
and the coolness of the night
the caress of the wind fairs best
without moments of respite—

even if the crescent moon dares
no pestering like the sun, i quite
get way less aware
my lips already needed a bite.