braved the cold
and generously poured
some whiskey round a fire
with people called Love
under a sky called Hate.
when the whiskey made us warm,
the conversation dug into secrets,
those buried in earth, bark,
hearts and storage sheds.
they asked about you,
as if you still exist,
and at first I chuckled
and said something vague,
honest to Hashem.
then I turned to the fire
and hoped that you are warm
wherever you are
in the wide world.