I stroke your long neck,

It is later than I wanted it to be. It is as cold as it should be. I walk to your house. The walk is further than I expected. I do pull from the flask in my back pocket, and the snow begins again. You can only see it in the streetlights, and the touch to your face.

I stand outside your doorway, and I can see you standing in the kitchen. Your hip is cocked, and you cradle the phone against your shoulder, as you thumb for my phone number in your book.

I measure. I measure the outside versus the inside.

The snow falls and gathers.

I meet your eye through the glass of your front the door, and you give me a 'What the fuck?' shoulder shrug, and put the phone down.

I feel something. I smile to myself over the fact that you wanted me there.

I come inside.

There is Yoko Ono on the system.

There is a small stuffed dog on your widow frame.

I want to know where it came from. NYC, where else?

We drink bourbon from the bottle and whiskey from the flask.

Your housemate's boyfriend shows up with an armful of vinyl and a good story about little Rhody. It won't be until the next day that I will connect that he was C's slut for a while.

You lay your head on my lap, and I touch your long neck, and let my fingers run in your red hair.

Your housemate and her boyfriend shut up for a while, and watch as I stroke you.

I can't see your eyes but I am sure they are closed.

And I want.

The snow falls and gathers, and I want to kiss you as Yume Bitsu plays.

I want to kiss you for hours as my fingers round your ear.

I want to kiss you for hours as I tell you it is time for me to go home.

2 minutes you say.

And 2 minutes is all we really get.