Winter creeps into the lines of our lips before breath spins outside air into cotton.
Spittle settles there, blanketing
the surface with chapped flesh —
a fresh snowfall.
Bare hands huddle
cold and close.
My muscles trace half moons
at the creases of your palms,
bony fingers stir your sleepy blood.
Deposit kisses on twin cheeks
and beneath your ruddy nose.
You’ll get sick,
elbow prods my hip.
My tongue doesn’t seem to mind.
The Bucketlister 