My love is weak-shouldered, love,
When the blades in their pits ache,
I look for the sting of the cold
And hurry my warmth around you.
My love is slow-cantering, love,
When the sun rises in the bloom,
Half of my legs create distance
To better see your blush in pastels.
My love is closed-handed, love,
Your smiles light up the coins
Hidden on our valleys of frost,
I spend my summers making walls.
My love is high-fevered, love,
I contract contagions like a trader,
All of me is a battle-field, waiting,
You're my death-bed every time.