The snow falls quietly to the street
blotting out the dark and replacing it with white.
At this hour it does not want to be heard.

We sit underneath the car hang in the cold
allowing you to smoke and watch the silence.
There must be something romantic to sipping red wine
and staring at the white streets.

You do not offer me your bodily warmth
when just prior you were all to happy to give it to me.
The roads are far too icy for driving home anyways.

This union, this encounter
was this moment of red wine and snow.
And in the morning it will cease and be annoying
as empty glasses and frozen roads.