I give in to the urge to pull away dry skin from lips,
gazing blindly at trees, ermine-drenched,
regretting at once as blood met tongue.
It is that time of the year again; when nights are brighter
than mornings, when cashmere is suctioned to our bodies
- and we don't mind - when I could watch clouds of our
breaths waft through the air, collide, dancing
(but this time, you couldn't take the lead)
right before the breeze tore them to nothing,
while you held my gloved hand - oblivious, woolgathering -
waiting for snowfall, you said, like a child; fascinated.