You keep twisting the truth

I keep gluing my fingers to the glass

I want to be tethered to touch.

The snow keeps coming

Thick-brush paint strokes

You wished for better weather,

I wanted you painted-up.

Cold skin along my spine,

My bent backbone

You were warm.

You keep me up,

I keep to myself.

We rigidly resign ourselves

To the right angles of

Rhyme.

But we keep running.