It’s always snowing outside my window

at least in my own mind.

By morning its all melted gone.

A tongue tip taste I failed to find.

Thinking of the first loss after a first love

with my face stuffed sobbing into pillows,

What I’d thought was the shared smell of wet kisses

was just my own breath, fogging up my nose.

Strange how smell can stab below the scalp

precise as a surgeon’s scalpel, plucking memory,

unlike songs or sights or staring out at night

and thinking of all the times that love has left me.

In school they taught, that heat always moves to cold.

Tell that to fingertips pressed against this glass.

It sure feels like its the chill stealing in,

rather than my warmth, hurrying to pass

out from me in a new pale wondering.

That all I’ve ever felt, was maybe,

just the feeling, like my breath or the cold,

of my own love, leaving me.