Eighty degree snow.

bare flesh
terry cloth coaxing
out the dampness

five years,

or was it six?

frozen memories
melting, trickle slowly

carefully
tracing the path
fingers seared

later - did others
feel the deep grooves
november burned?

shaking out wet hair

back arched
trying to savor

the taste of vintage
snowflakes on my tongue

bare feet

on the ceramic tile

shivering

eighty degrees
and snow is falling.