in her head he brings her coffee
and a small smile, which he places just before her
as something young and fragile and
maybe delicate. she bites her lips when
she smiles back, the cold november in the crinkly
spaces of her mittens that scrunch into his
black gloves when he takes her hand
and leads her into greyer skies,
snow, maybe just a miracle for the
young, and maybe melted by tomorrow or by
her flinching awake and paying for her coffee.
again, the fewer coins making gravestone indents into
her palms, her earbuds twisted into soft acoustics, and
her hair pushed
busily behind her ears: she wears her intelligence as much
as she wears her old-fashioned sweaters and people take
her as abrasive. coffee hot in her
and she steps outside.
when she closes her eyes
he is kissing her in the fresh snow.