113.

it has been winter here for years

and I have only written the frost, lingering

over my aching fingertips

never warming my hands in my pockets

I have complained

about loneliness

and I have kept myself

alone

maybe because it seems safer

to hold myself at night

than risk a stranger’s hands leaving marks

but my own arms only reach so far

and there is still a small space on my back

that I cannot touch without help

so I am sure you have been wrapped in other women's sweaters
and I am sure you are wrapped in one now
and I doubt I could fit into your clothes, but
I would not mind a shot at it
stretching woven knits to slide my arm into the same sleeve as yours
our necks filling one collar, vertebrae kissing
I would not mind drinking from the same coffee mug
and breathing from your steamed lungs

and maybe you are just my excuse to write poetry
but the words fall freely from my hands, so
let's not overanalyze it

because I have been told that fingers are not defibrillators
that holding hands will not bring back what is dead in me
and sex can't save my life, but
it is so cold here
I am beginning to think the frost is slowing my heart
and I cannot help but wonder whether your touch is electric
and whether I will be nerve-damaged or revived underneath you
maybe your sheets are positively charged
and our sweat would conduct sparks through our lips
and maybe that might be enough
to keep me warm.