Cold rain brings with it expectation
of colder nights, white clumps of snow
clinging to my clothes, drifting
from clouds unseen in a blackened sky.
I remember your skin, a field of snow
flecked with brown birds, my hand
on your hip. I remember something
warm pressed against my body when
I was surrounded by air as moist and cold
as the felsh of an apple from the fridge.
When you asked me to return
to this, I knew what it would feel like,
the pull of longing slowly ripping
those laughs out before they are ready,
the way you would push me back
into my bed, the long abesence.
But here I am, face wet again.