You burst in full of hot laughter frosted in the night air. Frozen stars lit the crow-wing shine of your head. When you shook snow from your shoulders I remembered my father. Some nights he brought rain home in his hair. His kisses glazed my forehead with cool shine while I counted goosebumps into sleep. A tiny blue spark licked from your fingers to the doorknob. We both squealed at the snap. As you leaned in for a kiss I thought I smelled ozone, tasted tinsel. Shivered. Every night since I have put on wool socks, the green Shetland sweater you like, and the knit cap you left behind. I have walked heavy and slow, dragging your absence along the carpet, then gathering you up again with each electric nip at the door.
(previously published on umbrellajournal.com)