at home on a winter's night

The thick night cloaks everything and the snow follows suit

a delicate dance, welcome

after two years of rainy Decembers. 

My room is cold even though

the heat is blasting, so I sit

with tea and a blanket, shivering

as our Christmas tree twinkles downstairs. I can't see into the dark

outside my windows,

but I can sense the snowfall,

a strange ache of longing in my collarbone.

A minute away, you are at home.

A minute away, you sit at your desk

or in bed

maybe wearing your Carhartt sweatshirt, your hair

mussed and uncaring. Maybe your put-off homework

nags at you, and your phone

buzzes with Snaps from a girl

who turns your mind to mush. 

Maybe your parents are talking downstairs, and you can hear

the low thrum of their voices over the cranking

of your old radiator.

Maybe you're watching the snow.

You do not know

that I am thinking of you, you do not know

that you've made me dizzy since last time

snow made its yearly debut, cold fingers

kissing the charred hungry ground.

The way I wish you'd kiss me, chapped and

frozen, because if I can't have you in autumn,

I'll take the delicious chill of winter, I'll wish for

hats and gloves and your hands in mine.

But it's silly, isn't it?

Imagining having you. 

A minute away, you are at home on a winter's night

and you are not thinking of me.