whenever winter’s knife had dulled
we shrugged our heavy coats,
and dared the wind to lick our lips
and paint our pale skin pink.
we liked to think the season couldn’t touch us.
before her i’d grown older,
i’d even felt much colder in the warm
than when lying nude beside her
though she pulled the blankets from my legs
but the day i felt the youngest,
was the one i left the umbrella
though the forecast called for rain.
damn whatever storm is coming,
we’ll run from door to cover,
and if caught we’ll just get wet
we traded kisses in the stairway
then cast curses on the pavement,
and when she finally touched my fingers
we felt like strangers at the border,
so i looked the other way.
we were kept across a country
and divided by a decade
but no difference really mattered
except the words we couldn’t muster
which would have the final say