it's in the cinnamon
tones of her hair curling
between the frosty fingers
of wind's fist, full of coffee
and stolen champagne bubbles.
each strand tugged so tight in
braids of fire, ice, and soft
ash that smells of vanilla.

it's in the biting blush
strung up in every
snowflake—a lattice across
her skin.

it's folded in the blanket's
winkles; enveloping a frame
work with candle glow warmth
and matching creases.

just for her.

she's sewn up in silvery
seams of thin ice: a winter
mosaic. here above, he can
see it in the sleeplessness
approaching under the stars;
he can see the bullet
holes scattered among the
night that let it leak in.

flawless, the shattered crystal
of the surface—no glossy
photo paper. this is the
oxymoron of snow-glazed
roses, of purple and light
as a feather sunsets trimmed
with red and gold. all it took
was the ghost, unborn words,
dancing in the brush of
his eyelashes against her cheek
to wash her ashore.