Snow is the color of our skin

Drunk on a futon
at four in the morning
can never be boring.

Your fingers shine in the dark
and your eyes gleam
like little ghosts,
or so it seems

from where I'm looking,
my head on a pillow
and yours in the air
like a sparrow,

like something light
and precious--I know;
your eyes aren't ghosts
but flakes of snow.

Snow is the color of our skin
when we're in from the sun,
and red is something else
altogether.

Red can be anger, I've read,
or courage, and of course
it means "Stop!" but for me
it's the color that bores

blissfully into my eyes
when we kiss
in this darkened state of grace,

and though I may nod off
like an addict in a corner,
the fact is the blood I see
through my thin eyelids
is moving this fast
because of you.