This

It’s not that I come to you craving
or asking for bliss.
It’s just that you fit
to my cinnamon wine like a blizzard.

It’s not that I want you to be
as sublime as my line --
it’s just that you are,
and I’ve no other choice but to blindly

go after the snow (that is you and is way,
way beyond
from what i have pictured)
and be to myself a coyote,

a guide through all borders of mine.
You’re as swift as a wit,
as feline as lines
ever hope to become, and a winter,

a stern and all-swiping grim gust
to the warmth of my wine.
Hail her who somehow is still up
to endure all my whining.