UNTITLED TYPEWRITER POEM NO. EIGHT

8

In January
the sun is warm,
but there still remains
a chilling cloth
covering my brittle skin.

If the snowfall
was replaced with dew,
and the reflective heat
replaced with you,
I would simply
remove the heavy cloth
and carry you
into the arms
of July,
wrapping myself, instead,
in the warmth
of your muted skin.

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