Heat is like a blush—

it passes through the skin; fades.

And like a blush, embarrassing.

I pull in, away from my skin,

and his—ever so slightly.

A stiff north wind strikes

the windows. “Jack?”

He calls me. “Jack, why is

it suddenly so cold?”

I remove the disguise of this

pink skin. There is a cooler blue

tint, beneath that sheath. Icicles

pierce my ears and snowflakes

shake from my hair. I touch him

softly, brush his lips with numbing

fingers, gently kiss burning lips as

comfort, while my desire stills.

He shivers and pulls

further within the bed, and fear

follows too—very plain. “I’m sorry,”

I say, but I’m not. “Go to

sleep and forget. I never feel

heat for more than a little while.”

I leave him by the window so he

can rest. I hope he’ll forget. I go

out to touch the leaves,

rub my back along the grass,

and breathe upon the windows

of cars.

I see him again some morning

later, and he lays his arm around

me. He asks, can I see him,

can do it again. “Not now,”

I tell him. “I’m cold.”