We wake up
in bitter cold,
and candied "good mornings"
to have the moon
be the milk for our coffee,
and the sun,
honey for our tea.

From there,
we get dressed,
wearing each other's laugher
as sweaters,
and long conversations
as the seams for our trousers,
pulling each yawn
over our feet
before we head out the door.

I take notes with
locks of your hair,
and write them down
on the porcelain bits
of your hands,
all the while you sit,
and paint with my eyelashes,
crafting the fire,
that lights each iris.

And this is our life;
warmly drunk on
promises,
and the way our hands clasp
when we walk,
a sweet slumber
from which we will never be awoken,
because people see things,
and they understand,
that
like vines,
we're intertwined.