Weather

Acclimating to the weather patterns of a

Best friend whose

Climate is so heated by the breath of polar bear

Dogs, takes time,

Even if you bring your mothers swimsuit.

Frozen tundras have always been more your style, but

Good things come in two’s, so

Here you are, bounding

Into the waters filled with

Jellyfish so beautiful, you have to touch them. The

Key, which you have not yet been given, is to not touch them, rather

Lazily dance your fingers through the sand instead of the

Manic electricity. For she, is

Not manic, you are. Which is strange, given that hours evaporate

Obsessing over your own snowbanks being even. Only this

Pacifies your fear from the flurry above.

Quaking in your boots is now an art, as cold wind

Rakes through the caves in your mountains

Sweeping out bones from the last creature who

Trapesed from habitat to habitat only to find your territory

Unsuitable for making a life, but painted in breathtaking

Varying shades of pink.

When your atmospheres collide

Xerox me a copy of what the steam looks like when its backlit by

Yellow tinted light bulbs

Zapping moths who couldn’t care less about the weather.