A Friday Portrait of Love

She steals along the snowy streets.
She stops not at the corner but just like that,
in the middle of her way.
She rubs against the night lamps,
against the tails of cats,
skids on the ice of the pavement
and slips in among the breath
that was meant to warm your palms.

All in all, she does as she pleases
and cares nothing for the decency of her trousers.
With cool eyes that make you wonder
whether, beyond the cold frost,
they burn with a warm fire
or do not see you at all.

Or see you as cold frost
that can never be set alight.