In the sleepy silence of December—
gumdrop lights and diesel tour buses.
I wished for snow;
and you promised to one day teach me how to
grasp frost in your palm,
and never feel the winter.

You taught me impressions—
how to see someone. I couldn't do it,
I always came out sounding like myself,
while you, wearing sunlight,
danced like darkness down my lungs.
Then, whisper sloppy icicles in my ear,
trace the bumps of my spine, feel the arch of my ribs.

I taught you how to climb trees—
our feet blackened in my backyard, as,
barefoot, we chased through gritty dust,
hid from the mailman; our pulses quick like Latin beats,
your hands never quitting of their journey on my cheek.
Your eyes are passionate—long lashed and romantic.

Shivers could descend hungrily on these parched bones—
I could be lonely, twinkling next to the tree—
sympathy pains for you.
I'm afraid you'll drive away, leave me here
to rot with oranges in the northern groves.
But you promised me we could fly, two snowbirds
in reverse,
and you'd teach me
how to hold on to something, and never let it go.