Strangers

He grows inside someone he does not recognize.
The brief awkward moment that happens
when two land-locked lovers touch toes,
both yearning for the sea-like navy life.
Feeling alive with every pen stroke, every mark:
births a new idea.
Antecedents only to each other,
drawing, giving birth to a connection.
Becoming a part of a legend with a jagged ledge
that fingers caress legibly.
Lips give life to wafts of clouds in a chapped, blistering cold.
So cold that nose hairs freeze when breath,
so damn cold eye juices turn to tiny ice cubes.
He placed them in his whisky glass and filled it with mourning.
As the sun rises over the moment frozen in time,
it’s so peaceful here.
Pines and aspens point to their mother,
snow muffles the grass’ purpose.
The deepest creases aren’t the ones
marked by sleds, skis, and boards
but the one pressed by tears streaming down cheeks.
A daughter sinks into a corner,
crying little tiny ice cubes
as her daddy plays real-life war games.
He grows inside someone he does not recognize,
and they wish each other goodnight from their separate sides.
Like strangers on a hotel bed.