he called me december

he said it suited me.

all the gold streets and snowfalls.

standing in a storm without hearing anything.

he said beauty never needed to yell, anyway,

but he called me december

because cold things are beautiful, too.

because of my winter eyes.

my dark eyes.

my rooftop eyes that mirror midnight and pull cold air out of everyone's lungs.

he called me december.

but it wasn't for the blacks

and the blues

and the flames on my fingers.

he called me december,

because the street was alive past midnight,

and the snowfall came in silent.

he called me december,

for the violin solos

and the way music feels on your ear drums

and the colors taking up space in your windows.

he called me december,

and it wasn't for the bad streets

and ice hands.

he called me december

because he loved it there.

because he loved it there,

despite the cold hands and black eyes,

those winter eyes that mirror madness and make for Sunday night tears.

he loved it there,

with the shaking feet

and frozen lips.

he loved december

with her broken heart and bad ideas,

and december loved him.