it's cold out

Everything we touch tonight
burns with cold; our hands, our faces, the chains on the swings.
Everything we see glitters, is filmed with ice; the trees, the pavement.
I let you kiss me, because you want to.
I would let you go further if there was somewhere to go.
You try, and fail, to find an inch of skin, a tiny bit of warmth,
an indication that I am more than allowing.

But tonight there is no warmth for you...not even the cocktail of
alchohol, an inch from each bottle, or a lungful of illicit smoke,
can thaw me.

It took too long to explain
what a bedsit is, who Blondie was, or what Mediterranean means,
to even attempt loneliness, comfort or no strings.

Easier then to leave you there, starry-eyed, high on hope.
Tonight my hands are too cold to hold onto anything.