In the last few seconds before a winter sunset dies
there is warmth inside and coldness out; my
hands were freezing even with gloves on. They
missed your grip and all the ways
your fingers found new paths along the metacarpals.
Though a crowd of laughter accompanies me
in the shadowy lights of December eve,
I do not rejoice at the green needles scratching
my skin, nor count blessed stars as they smile on me;
everything will disappear in a month's time,
except the lingering taste of last night's kisses.
Bleak and desolate are the streets,
biting wind the only relief for silence. I meet
perhaps a million strangers, all living and breathing. I can't tell them
I am little more than a ghost, because they are little more than a blur.
With death so eerily close I shut my senses.
Fireworks are in the sky and sparkling in other people's eyes;
they embrace one another willingly. I don't join in, I'm too far away,
dreaming of getting so lost in you
that I never find my way out.
I think that drops the romantic theme of the rest of the poem.
