Fog escapes from your lips- your tongue
Like smoke leaking through the crevice
Between two voluptuous red pillows
Resting upon the porcelain pallor of a 1940's pin-up doll
You bite the frost as it
Bites the tips of your fingers which
Crawl up my sleeve and tickle my forearm like a stray hair- so delicate and subtle.
You have subtle eyes embedded with emeralds.
They scream for Olympia, and the Pacific. They scream my name in gut-wrenching intervals that could leave any mouth dry as dust.
Only liquid rolls from those gorgeous subtleties residing between the hearing impaired; deaf from one thousand make-shift vows and a lifetime supply of whispered infatuation.
That liquid turns to ice as you step in patterns and fix your scarf to the tender silk flesh peering from the collar of my jacket where zipper meets safety and allows only the slightest bit of warmth to travel to my gradually thawing ears. I lay myself on your breast as you stroke the back of my neck, where the softest hair grows and curls like that of a small child.
I am a child at heart. I collect your thoughts in jars and label them as specimens of human devotion. I sit and observe like a blossoming scientist enthralled by fireflies. You love the way I call them 'fireflies.'�

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