Who put on our song?
It starts to snow.
The skin on my hands
has returned but it
keeps turning.
Spots scatter across.
More, now.
Veins appear, plump and purple.
The ends of my hair touch my ass
the way I’ve always wanted them to.
the way they could’ve
had I just been more patient,
had I spent less time in front
of mirrors, trying to change
immediately.
But the hair is white, now.
Thin. It keeps stretching
past my ankles. I hear it
swishing on the floor.
I know that if I reached for
my head I would
find the flabby coolness
of my scalp.
I move
my weathered hands
to your chest.
I move my hands to your neck.
where I feel a picture of us
from last summer.
You smell like stolen wifi and the snow
makes your eyelashes spark.
You ask me if I’d like to sing and I hear it
through your skin.