Hot

I wonder how hot your whispers are.
Like breath in the palms of your fists,
Standing on the icy winter street corner?
Maybe the clouds rolling to the ceiling of a hot shower?
Like hot chocolate, a good book, and some warm blankets when it's cold outside?
Possibly your whispers are hot like the friction between two lovers.
Your words, so sweet like candy.
They melt in my mouth,
And sometimes my hands.
Because you use your words a lot,
As I use my hands.

My hands are hot like the sun baked asphalt, with bare feet, running for the ice cream truck, but you never make it in time.
Hot like boiling water and clumsy cooking.
They're hot like carpet burn,
After being used like an old dishrag.
Thrown aside.
Hot like the sun when the earth reaches its end with the kiss it's been expecting for an eternity.