Your voice is the color of burnt sugar;
the landscape of my skin is etched into your palms.
As we traverse the ice-slick streets
you nest your hands underneath my ribs,
swing me over puddles of slush onto sidewalk-floes across;
I paint your dreams of a more temperate climate
with the clouds of my breath.
In your apartment, I drape blankets from my shoulders
while you put the kettle on.
The radiator rattles and sighs and hums a little gray-sky song.
