Cold hands

I woke before the sun to find you holding hands with winter,
the chill seeping through every crevice and unclaimed corner
to rest slyly and patiently for a breath of exposed skin.
The frigid kiss followed my every step along an altered route
with the vain hope of drowning the crisp coolness in sunshine,
my own hands driven wrist-deep into pockets pleased and inviting,
the northward-marching sun’s faint hand ushering me along.



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