It's pretty bloody cold.

Out into the frost

It is the tickle of each hair pulled taut
for the fraction of a second it might take you
to see me in this light; or your ribs on my cheek
or your dressing gown against my own,

both naked underneath. I imagine you here
but so often you are not, or not yet, and really
what is love but hope? I watched you
through hoar frost on my window today,

not looking up as you walked to the bus.
I hope it was because you hid a smile,
and in that smile, love. But I've heard nothing
from you since; I don't even know if you're okay.