I miss it most in Winter, feeling it, although in truth I
only knew you in spring, the lonely night, brittle as ice, nothing to cling to
accept my imagination, when I cling to you, the early dark this time of year
makes it worse, the need to feel you close up, to keep warm, not just against
the threat of polar vortex, to not face the dark alone, I miss most in Winter
what I never had with you except in dreams, when I ponder how warm we could get
if given the chance, how we might defy the deep freeze, the isolation of this
thing we lived through, a companion to rub against-- against the worst ravages
of the season, to once again spring up in you again in spring
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