Winters—
we like our bodies naked blanketed like letters in an envelope
moving against each-other as though the only warmth in this world
could come from touch as though the only way
to set fire to a place
were to press your lips to it
*
winters— we like our bodies knotted as though this world
couldn’t survive without our feet touching as we look at one-
another we read words scattered wishing so much of everything
so much of warmth as though the only way
to be in love were to say it inside our hands pull our hips closer
closer there is no reason one should rebel against a slightly
singed poach a warm cup of coffee every morning the way
the taste of other-ness then oneness
fills your mouth
like an old landfill asked this once for consent
