We hibernate between blankets and tuques and books— a rebellion against weight. You tell of the twitch of my left butt cheek at the dinner table—too obvious. We walk on ice without crampons and float in stories of sea-journeys and arctic landscapes. The fireplace kindled with crosswords, faces lit up by Jean Renoir and late-night pie. When I hold your eyes, you duck into my armpit and whisper rhubarb rumours. We don’t need much: a few words and a pink sky at night. We are each other’s business, finally. Nothing photogenic in these bisous— our brief parting a verbose sunset.
Rules of the Game
