The low winds moan,
and I’ve not yet taken off my coat,
‘cause we’re young, love,
and poor,
the house has drafts,
the heat’s on low,
but while the frost is beatin’ at the windows,
love,
we’ve got these mile-high blankets,
these mounds of pillows ‘n fabric crags,
comforter caves and little whistlin’ holes to the outside world.
Beneath those assembled fabric hordes,
only then is it safe to strip the coats,
and shirts,
and pants,
and undershirts
and long johns,
and socks,
and underpants (too cold for anything but the warmest woolen itch factories)
and bras
and just skin to skin to skin.
I’ve got that one brow up sort of look,
and in my eyes you know the quote I’m thinkin’,
“We’ve got to use our body heat.”
and love,
you’ve got all sorts of heat to you,
and then it’s fingers and curves,
and yelps as cold air sneaks its way in.
It’s lips and skin,
that taste of you,
the way my skin and yours seems to cling,
the scent of you,
the low winds moan,
and we do too.
Love, maybe it’s the way you seem to pull me into you,
maybe it’s the way your flavors seem to improve everything,
but love,
I’d love nothing more,
than to grow cold with you,
just to have an excuse to get warm again.
Because your body and mine,
there is the final swell,
the finger clenching climax of it all,
there’s that spark turned fire between us,
and this time, I won’t get any on you,
I know that gets cold so fast.
