The offence of a blush can push

its heat, fruther along—its embarrasment

as it passes, through the skin.

I pull away from my surface—ever

so slightly. Its a stiff north wind

that strikes him—where it rolls

against at the window pane. “Jack?”

—the way he calls me. “Jack, why

is it so sudden—that we're so cold?”

I remove this pink disguise—reveal

a cooler tint of skin—from its scabbard—

the jealous weapon I keep in its sheath.

Icicles pierce my ears—snowflakes shake

out from the squall of my hair—my touch,

soft, the way I brush his wrists—numb

nerves, where I skate my fingers—kiss

down, to his burning lips—my cool

comfort, is how I know that desire

will still—shortly after.

He shivers and pulls himself further,

into the bed. Unrolls blankets of fear

up to his chin—it's plain. “I’m sorry,” I say—

but I’m not. “Go sleep and then forget.

I never feel heat that lasts for more

than a little while.”

I leave by way of the window,

ostensibly so he can rest—I hope

he'll forget the chill. As I steal my way

go and touch the leaves—rub my back

along the grass—breathe and plan

my trellis, upon the parked

windows of shadowed cars.

It's some morning later, when I see him.

He lays his arm around me—and asks,

would I be good with coming by—and 

could do it again? “Not now,” I tell him. 

“I’m cold.”