Like this January wind-chill,
The uncertainty stings my face.
Causing my eyes to water,
Clear and warm, unlike the frost around me.
The freeze grasses through the thick lining of this coat,
It crudely touches my skin, as if it were fingers longing to feel.
I wish it were, and I can fantasize it is.
Yet, somehow my warmth attracts this advection of coldness.
The bittersweet kisses without lips or tongue.
That wakes me each morning, without smile or conviction.
To this January sun.