Funny thing about the cold,
it’s always sure to make us aware of when
our hands are empty.
Leaves us searching for
a warmth that doesn't want us back.

It gets to know us best when we’re undressed.
It tracks our naked bodies between
idle bed space and the holes in our sweaters.

We’re left no choice but to
pencil in the details
between the real and imaginary,
as it nips our ears with frigid whispers—
plants its frostbitten doubts
in the warmest corners of our minds.

The only traces it leaves behind
are a lonely shiver, a ghostly breath,
and the notion that we can never
solely keep ourselves warm.