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language, or why it's okay to break the rules

two o’clock in the morning,
sneaking into my dorm room,
he tells me that
there is an ancient word for
the way snow looks
as it falls against the night sky.

two-thirty,
pressed together in a dormitory bed,
he says that
the Eskimos
have seventeen words for
“snow.”

three o’clock,
i fall asleep,
inventing words for
the way creamer looks when swirled with coffee;
the foreboding (yet somehow comforting) feeling
that accompanies a cloudy day;
the precise moment
when you look in someone’s eyes
and know that you are
head-over-heels
in love.

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language, or why it's okay to break the rules by 


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