my lips
chapped and half-
parted
are still—in January
kissing—
back against
your own course
pair from this
past Christmas in quivering
sympathy;
or, at least, in what still
feels like the residual
static
friction of some past
conversation—one that concerned
the extent to which joy—
true Joy!—
is actually about
the North-Pole-
farthest
feeling in the world away
from comfort.
