Winter's Queen

By Godot

Stacked on the table, books, which you keep shut,
those books he sent to you. "He's such a pill," 
you think, tea with essence of bergamot
growing cool on the chipped-paint windowsill.
He does not breathe -- his air is halogen 
when you are breathing someone else's breath.
He slams the window, opens it again;
the wind's so cold he hopes he'll catch his death. 
You recall, there are three ways heat is lost:
radiation, conduction, convection,
and scratch a fingernail against the frost,
another's name, with nectarous affection,
but half the pleasure that your sleep will grant
is born of knowing that the last man can't.

Unauthorized Copying Is Prohibited. Ask the author first.
Copyright 2010 Godot
Published on Monday, April 27, 2015.     Filed under: "Poetry"
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