Uiscefhuarithe
Oct 10, 2023
There is nothing quite like touching a cold cheek in winter.
To feel, for the first time, one’s own face.
Realize the softness of your own skin.
You’ve forgotten yourself.
Judgment yields at the door.
Your palm cannot, oh sacred moment, recognize it has touched this face a million times before.
It has dug at this skin, it has tarnished, torn, burrowed, bored.
Most blooms die off in the first frost — but these! These apples grow redder as they freeze.
They are swollen and plump, these cooled, mounded lumps.
Chilled as two ripe, refrigerated plums.
Before your fingertips can thaw out your skin,
your cheeks delight in the warmth and decide to let it in.
They lean into the touch and start to sag,
as you recall that you are all that you have.
