“It’s really cold out here”
she uttered in the bitterness
of the Brooklyn night;
and at first it was meant
to be merely a stark statement,
a quiet observation;
something to crack open
and dispense into the impossible silence.
But it quickly evolved
into a prayer
or a plea, rather,
once subconscious musings and thoughts
glowed vibrantly and collided
with the empty account
of her frosted fingertips
and chapped lips.
“Hold my hand”
she posed blushing
in the bitterness
of the Brooklyn night.