Northern Lights

He may as well have been the borealis

all aurora aura and out of reach.

He pointed me north with his maren eyes,

and it was the first time the cold

felt like home.

He shoved snow in my pockets

so I'd always have some to remember him by,

as if the memory of

the way his hands tangled in the angora of my sweater

could be preserved in ice.

He didn't know it was already sealed,

in the stain on my lips,

chapped crimson made sweet

from his cinnamon soaked

maple syrup mouth.

one hundred tiny promises

and folded paper hearts

filled the spring rains

and we danced without umbrellas

wishing we had swords to battle time

unconquered, unyielding,

always watching

always against us.