Name of the Winters

The morning tea simmers on the rusty old stove
of the roadside tea stall and you take a whiff
of the steam coming out in childish excitement.
In these winters, the tea lets out a little too
much of its insides and forms patterns unknown
on your glasses which I find too hard to decode,
but your mischievous eyes are too easy to read.

You love winters so much that you don’t let the
heat seep in a bit and cover your palms with
stretching ends of your sweater to hold the cup,
and by God,
you look beautiful doing these little things.
We walk back home, snow clinging to our boots,
cold love creeping up your bones and
intoxications of the tea burning riots of
desires down my body.

And we make love near the fireplace,
on the cold mat.
Your moans compete with cackles of the fire
and I break down on your body as the
firewood disintegrates into the ashes.
The sweat in your forehead comes too slow
and vaporizes too fast and we burn,
we burn as the ever-replenishing desires of
our rusty but necessary love,
like your morning tea.

But you have too much of these winters inside you
and I melt too easily.
So we lay in each other’s arms the whole night,
complementing each other.
We wait for the morning to creep in again and
the tea to simmer in the
name of our rusty love again.

In the midst of the rituals that
make a home inside us,
I tell you I love you far too many times,
you reciprocate with too many little things
and too few words and I know that we made it.
So before the sun shines again,
before the snow melts again,
before you turn a tad bit summer sad,
I name the winters after you.
I name the winters after you.


Photo by Artem Saranin from Pexels

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