Her breath clouds the window with snow,
She does not see me.
Within her foggy tundra,
She presses her hand against me.
Her palm aches against my skin,
She does not know me.
Within her dark lips open in amusement,
She kisses my cheek.
My breath makes no mark upon her white,
I see her too well.
Within the catacombs of my soul,
I press my hand against hers.
My palm feathers against her flesh,
I know only her warmth.
Within the edges of my desire,
I kiss only the cold of loneliness.