What I Handed You Instead

You came in from the cold with your coat still on.

When you finally pulled it off, the collar gone

down from your neck, I saw the collarbone —

wind-reddened, flushed. You'd been out long, alone

in whatever weather. I didn't say a word.

I went to the cabinet instead. The third

or fourth time this week I've done this: noticed,

then brought something. A glass of water. I voiced

nothing. Handed it over. You drank.

The coat on the chair. The collarbone went blank —

went back to its usual color. You went

to change. I stood at the counter. The spent

feeling of a sentence I didn't say

still in my chest somewhere. The rest of the day

already gone. The glass empty on the counter.

The cold has left you. I kept the winter.