The Cold Front

The thermostat's dial turned down again—

a frostbite negotiation

in the middle of the night.

I found my breath fogging in the icebox room,

fingers clumsy and numb,

shaking out cold like old sins.

Heat, a battleground;

you push it low,

I wear sweaters like armor,

our silent war measured in degrees.

Frozen air seeps in,

a slow seep that knows no truce,

a quiet fight

under the humming of the heater.

And I fold into the chill,

watching my own breath shiver,

telling myself this cold

is only temporary.