The Temperature Was Us

I love you yesterday,
as I said
or better yet, should've
(in more words).
Better stated
in a cherubic voice
howling wisdom
anticlerical and antiseptically,
time is a healing venom
rubbed all over the scabs
I proudly wear hidden
of your touch.
I came every month of every year
on your joyous calendar
'til I was December
to your every April,
washing rain against my soul
and not believing in May;
not seeing
the temperature of us
for the beauty of the moment
but rather
the account saved for later
or the benefits forever.
A breath you left toward the future
would bring a gale
of warmth and silent charge.
One not hidden for shame
but safely kept keepsaken
as a dot in line
of our new unkept time.