Air

I suppose I didn't wear enough scarves,
your eyes are colder than the howling wind.

I look wounded, and I so often do
and I search for your love in the horizon.

Your arm moves swiftly to
replace the air around me.

It's a different kind of home,
in your arms, you echo the sounds of the sea.

He told me to go to Nantucket,
He told me to go to Newfoundland.

He shook me with his warnings
and hounded me with his words.

And despite the wind's shrieks,
the only air that exists is that which is in your chest.
You pushed away the rest.