steam

you are polar.

you are ice caps and the fog that

rests in front of my face

at 5AM in fall

you are whispered words of french

not meant to be heard or understood

you are vanilla cold-brew coffee

and midnights.

i am the fine crease between blue

and orange in the fireplace

at christmas.

i am blonde hair always committing mutiny

against a regiment of rubber bands

i am your early-morning trip to the mountaintops

to watch the sunrise in the last,

hounded days of summer.

we are small magic.

we are hands curved to fit keyboards and quills,

and each other.

we are the smell of damp earth in between the pages of adventure novels

we are dawn-lit orchestral manoeuvers

and words that aren't spelled how they sound.

we are just going.