Mystify

On the day you finally meet me,

it will be very cold.

You will stand outside

facing clear glass doors,

your warm breath

forming thought bubbles

your fingertips will be

drawing questions in

against the glass.

You will knock,

or ring the bell,

or call my name,

I will have been waiting,

and I will begin to ask,

Who are you?

Why are you here?

Don't unfold to me

too easily,

the gifts you will bring

my prying questions

will unwrap

too quickly.

Place your hands over my eyes,

don't let me see you

too clearly.

Don't let me invite you in.

You will speak to me

with each breath

casting warm mist

against my skin,

with each word

forming white clouds

in my mind.

You will feel your fingertips

turning numb against my face,

but I will let you know.

When the mist has settled

in my eyes,

my hands will find yours,

and into the cold,

I will join you.