not a love poem
warm like shimmering pools of honey; sweet, sticky, thick for your tongue to swim carelessly in
bright like hot, powdered sand permanently tanning under a summer sun; flakes of gold stuck on sweaty skin
chambré like dark wine dripping from your parted lips mimicking blood oozing out from a pink wound; come, press yours against mine, let’s not bleed so soon –
toasty as we emerge from under thick, heavy covers skin flushed, grins goofy your fingers tracing my spine, ever so gently
a summer of deep blue oceans and melting popsicles and lazy mornings and running barefeet and first days of school where you find out that cold is the absence of heat.
warm is a mother’s cuddle, a full feast on the table, a smile from a stranger a yes from your lover –
tonight you kiss me goodbye and I watch your call pull away as the world descends into darkness, draining itself of colour because warm is toasty and deep, and loud and gold, and bright, but now I see that if cold is to be without warmth but to be warm is to be loved then to be without love is what we call tonight –
its why I call you so cold.