Lately
our arms must
circle a wider
space because of the bulk of
winter clothing; through my coat I could not distinguish
your hands on
my back; a
vague padded
warmth of
muscle pressed around me. I slipped
my hands up inside your
sweater to trace
your spine, your
shoulder blades through the thin
cotton.
Our breaths clouded behind each other; I was not cold but I knew I should be; the weight of your leaning grounded me. Your slight beard was rough against my neck and for an instant your ear cupped to mine, larger than mine, fitting well. For a moment we had sealed ourselves into that lock; that was all there was.
We stood, briefly isolated together in the cold which had ceased to matter, two halves of a seashell, reintroduced, each hearing the other's pulse and the reflection back to its source, silent and roaring in the streetlamp glow of a front stoop in November.