By Grace Lawrence

You slept soundly,
breathed gently.
Our bodies pressed together,
a picture
deep in the pages
of the book I read.
Warm breath drifted down my neck,
shook my spine.

I did not want to wake you
when I reached out,
pressed my warm hand
against the frosted window.
Held the cold in my palm;
traced patterns
on the frozen glass.
My finger moved to my lip,
and I tasted winter on
my tongue.