On combining, to no avail, the blankets of this bed with the blankets of that (poetry)

You are a winter thing, and I
am pinned beneath your net of snow,
a spreading web of frost under
my skin. We freeze against each other,
water curling into ice, two breaths
condensing in a cold room.

• Cold, no blankets, watching the sun come up for air
• Two stick figures leaning towards each other, heads touching
• condensation