i wake up and make toast with jam (the last of the jar that her dad had made) and its cold out. a manitoba cold which resembles near frost bitten ears while wandering frozen lakes. but the cigarette smoke still burnt my lungs which duplicated the feeling of scalding hot toes in the shower after a cold walk home (from somewhere not so near) and i search for words like always. a is for asymmetry like charlie brown's tree, and b is for blowjob and c is for candy or cunt or caryatid (an architectural object which is reminiscent of a female shape) and i'll attempt to string them together in a meaningless mismatch of melancholiness (m). I'd build you a house, large of course, and close to the forest, near that stream perhaps. I'll trap the heat of our summer in my palms and pockets (save for the ones of which escape through my poorly sewn patches) and fill the rooms and drawers and cupboards and cups until you insisted you saw the glow of this warmheartedness ("it feels like you." you stated in a sigh between dreams and the morning). and i swore you would never feel that cold again.
