unnatural chills sweep through the hand-holding interlace
of my window screen;
this cold, in april? eliot spoke of april's cruelties,
but to rob la printemps of her chaleur, to use his terms;
to rob the spring of her warmth?
not so much as to leave me alone in the cold, smothered under
blanket after blanket after blanket,
and still the chill kisses the tips of my toes;
there is the dark outline of an arm,
death himself reaching his chill to my bedside?
alas, it is just a coat of some girl's,
discarded for la printemps et ta chaleur,
unable to accept this kind of chill in april.
suddenly, an overwhelming wave of it brushes the blankets to below my waist;
no! i am not holding hands with a ghost, a demon,
a phantom of sorts,
hand in hand, you carry me through the night,
and i feel it, yours and la printemps chaleur,
i find warmth in the hands of empty sleeves,
that tomorrow perhaps,
i will in fact be holding the hands,
chaleur and alive,
the hands of yours.