I don’t know whether to think of passion as a fruit or a feeling but I do know what it is to ski three thousand vertical feet thinking of you approximately every thirty seconds. I know the vapor shapes your name makes when it leaves my mouth in a cold whisper among the snow burdened branches of pines. I know what it’s like to drive to the airport and condemn to a flaming, horrible death every driver in my way for keeping me from pulling up to the curb where you will be waiting, smiling at my perfect timing. I know that your forearms are unusually long and elegant and how the fine light hair lies flat against your skin like prairie grasses in a wind. I know how the divot in your chin deepens when you sleep on your back. I know how your eyes are like chips of pale grey ice when you are listening closely, and how your smile will warm them to a color that is almost blue. I know every square inch of the poem that is your neck. I don’t know why these things cause my heart to swell dangerously within its cage of bone and blood, or if I can take much more, but I am o so willing to try.