Writing You in Winter

I woke up sad, bereft
with an unnamable longing,
ancient to me.

My desk sits against a frigid wall.
Today’s temperature and low sun
feel like being held against my will. 

We are cold, too. Superficial as black ice.
Uncertain of my footing, I fear slipping,
write my way out of what feels dangerous.

My journal points to you.
Sure-footed with your imprint,
what I’ve extrapolated fails me.

I ask myself what it is I need.
My mind leaps to a blow torch
or a pair of spiked boots.