we met in january's frozen throat,
when trees wore ash and skies wore smoke,
the streets with no idea how to bloom,
the world rehearsing for the tomb,
and breath came out like quiet doom.
you walked in black with ribbons tied,
a porcelain storm at winter's side,
foreign letters on your skin,
soft like prayer, sharp like sin,
teaching stillness how to grin.
i answered back with electric fire,
small fake suns from copper wire,
built you warmth from scrap and steam,
bolted hope into the seam
between the real and what we dream.
they said this time of year buries all,
no seed survives the final fall,
but every step you chose to take
made sidewalks ache and ice awake,
convinced the frost to simply... break.
so let them trust in march's art,
we carved a pulse in season's heart,
you with lace and lunar trace,
me with gears, with oil and grace,
as coldness learned a living face.