You are temperate kisses on frost-chilled windows. The fragrant evergreen and pine, the delicate rasping of wine against velvet throats. You are thicket- carpeted tongue where settled crumbs of honey-lathered toast, burnt, crisp, crumbly, spongy, unlike your walls. The changing of locks, the changing of keys might not be a good way to spend time; they’re blind to sines, your shimmering solar attic-roof, your gauntlet garden, your haunted keep. You are beautiful in ways most men can’t discern, be careful who you let in, and in turn, be careful who you let return.