sun gave way to mist
to missing your midst

wind up and made me cold
pictures of bitter tea, rice wine

gloves gripping my hands
unnecessarily warming digits

hopes lost to crashing dreams
but not without celebration

the crust gathering on my thoughts
thick like the ground peas dried
on your otherwise pristine forehead
moving hand to face so as to miss your
mouth

with your hand knit green and yellow
booties we’ll make this the best winter
ever

without end.