Yesterday, I climbed through
a fresh snowfall, to your house
where whiskey awaited me, and a fire
that started and died within an hour.
The embers went cold and still
we can’t hold hands in front of anyone.
If you try to hold a poem
too tightly, it squeezes, suffocates
and flattens out in front of you.
It would be too heavy-handed to say
that is our relationship, and yet—
Here I am, not saying that, but saying
stop it with the goddamn video games already
and, sadly, what I mean is
aren’t my hands more beautiful
than anyone’s? My words?