every time i blink

the streetlight
frames the oak tree
backlit,
poses it full-frame,
center stage.
my eyes are drawn back and forth
between it
and the stark white of my breath
hanging in the air.

i forget how winter
moves
when i look away.

she told me once
she loved me for my perfect hands
and teeth.
she would trace the lines
of my face
with her fingers
and call me "sugar."

i think i lost track of metaphor
somewhere between her sheets.