Warmth is the valleys between
the ten castles of your fingers
and the carved glacial curve of
your throat, not
in the summer air.
Elsewhere is arctic, desolate
of the sweet flood which covers my skin
when the heat from your lips moves
like a tempest to my cheek.
Smiling, you kiss me.
I recall what I
forget the better inches of, so often;
that we love each other
like cloud and sunset, because
when we’re together
the whole world is more glorious.
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