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Letters to New England MAG
i.
 It's always coldest
 When frost creeps up my window
 And I remember
 That yours is still dripping
 And bejeweled with East Coast rain.
 
 ii.
 I miss the city
 That housed my happiest years
 But not half as much
 As the smell of your shampoo
 Lingering on my pillow.
 
 iii.
 The snow weighs heavy
 On the cracking limbs of trees
 And in the space
 Between my lips and your cheek.
 Winter's never felt so wrong.

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