If not so shadowed with the desire to become your perfect carnal love story,

I might've enjoyed those secret autumn words for what they were:

 A dream in blankets, a bright fire to kindle the heart, a new distraction, and nothing more

But the weight and hot pressed feel of your words and images

Caused a deliciously painful want

As I wrapped a dainty hand around your throat

My heart exploded into pieces for someone else to sweep up

If the currency of love is attention, 

The atoms racing around in my body loved yours

Dreamed of sinking my fingertips into your skin,

Of leaving us both hollow and bruise

 But January is an icy withholding of affection,

Left with the sick taste of ache, and hairline cracks 

Looking for a secret space that I can quietly retreat into

When plagued by marauding memories of a perfect stranger