A steady hand against my back
was something I felt like I had won,
Sitting around a table worn smooth
By restless adolescent hands (as we were, always)

Warm to the touch,
The fire that she painted
was slightly pungent like cinnamon
And made me slightly nauseous in the same way.
A sprinkling like cinnamon by the sun
Made a freckled face that pressed against my shoulder.
We felt warm again;
When just days before
We were outside in halfway melted snow and short sleeves
To immortalize ourselves;
Picking apart a radio that was the color of a dusk sky.
Cold blood has always run in my veins,
And my fingers melt and freeze at the slightest provocation.
His blue sweater shocked against a gray and brown wall
Enough to freeze my hands, I thought permanently,
But I melt again with warm water and radiators.
This season I live in constant fluctuation
And my fingers have begun to crack and fall apart
the way that asphalt does.
What was black and certain is now gray and rough.