God, what have I made of your face?
Out-makes the cold impossible
touch tenderly me, sweet
for the dark is no scare to me.
the clutch of your coat covers any distinguishing we require
and though we dont know what we are—to each other, I mean,
I know now must last
crunch all snow with your eyes' look,
and bury yourself further into me.
Go. Dig, you cute monster. Dig.
The fake moonlight will guide you in.
And know (place inside you, please)
that what breath parts these lips
courses for you, comes from a lung
[that gasps only (you),
that is clinched by the cold,
and held by your eye's look]
But know that we, misshaped things,
can stand frozen solid for each other
and melt with the breath and become one dark
Photo by Fred Watford. Words by Jordan Shappell.
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