Intimate

When the snow flurries
and the sun slices
buttery sharp through the clouds
in a desperate effort
to sever itself from the
sinking day,
and all the light seeps
into the murkiness of evening -
we write the hours longer
across our palms
and steady the time's march
with our tongues,
casting an impenetrable net
that catches us in the midst
of the eleventh hour
and holds us steady
in hibernation
as we exchange our
somber promises and pack
our hearts away tightly in love,
armoring their softness
against the inevitable night.