The snow falling into my mouth
which has been illuminated by the street
lamp tastes just like you.
To think that I lie beside
you at night, fighting the urge of my tongue,
while the giant ice shaver of the clouds
lets go your secret to all the worthless
people driving their cars on the highway outside
my window. The slooshing sound of their wheels
tearing up the recipe for your skin crazes me.

In a nightmare, I run outside in my pajamas,
the wind stinging my arms, the wetness
freezing my hair into a motionless tumult,
and scoop up as many flakes as I can,
making a mountain. I work until
the numbness in my legs becomes a fever
in my brain. Finally, I climb up
onto the melting mound of your body, and collapse,
filled with twisting sounds of storm,
empty of your flavorless chill.