But I Can't

the night is wet,
and colder than you had anticipated,
and you disappear back into the house,
re-emerging only a few moments later
with coat, gloves,      and
the yellows and blues of your scarf
creeping like a woolen vine against
your tender skin,       up
around the gentle slope of your neck,
across your delicate ears
to rest on your chin,
so close to your precious,
perfect lips

how many cold, icy nights have I
envied that scarf,       longed to
snuggle up to those lips,
and breathe in the warmth of
your breath, until beads of sweat
crowded my brow in anticipation
of tasting them,

and I want to say I love you

- Stephen W. Brodie