Your Kind of Winter

You are that illustration drawn in pencil, where once there was a window.
Now color.
A shape so unrehearsed, you are sprouting unknown shades
referring to themselves in your third person.
Monochromes wait for you to dry.
New color.

A paint truck spilled in summer.

I want to roll in your thunder, dry off
by walking backwards against the rain.

Of all the rainstorms
the world is alive, tasting this one for the first time. Ours.

Leave my chest blushing early plucked, in season, out of ripe.
I am the between-cartwheels-and-summersaults of your
out-of-breath childhood memories.
Catch me

Between
the U
and the S,
the sky falls, we slip into symphonic blues like hula hoop handcuffs.

Your tongue stirs water in my hole, hollow.
I blow kiss bubbles through
to meet your cracked wind pipes.
Mouth to mouth fizz fights.
Our thirst whistles through waterfalls that come down dry,
when you sip right.

Nature gave our first kiss quotation marks
to put on the walls of my own inner monument.
My historical landmark drawing crowds of the jealous and lonely.
The greatest tourist attraction
erected from the statue, you.
Liberty .
You.
Liberating.
I fell from, like this.
I lay by, like this.
You.
I am covered by greens and bulbs, lips of flowers that
can only grow during your kind of winter.
An annual white burn, brandishes the ice flies buzzing near your stare.


You are that window where I lean out and look down into bliss.
The dizziness does not need to look up at me to see
that you make me more beautiful
then I try to be when I take pictures of myself to send to you.


May I always decorate you without seasonal reasoning

I see my life as a glass half full-squared, when you're in it. Bring 2 straws.

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