I think we are gonna be friends

I sit in the cold and clasp myself,
thinking of walking in the cold with you,
our lips chapped and electricity flowing through our hands and warming our souls
as our breath, like smoke, flows out of our mouths in a happy rhythm.

But, in reality, real smoke enters my throat
through a pipe nestled between my lips as I hold myself
against the arctic wind, looking up from my escaping story,
which wisps away like the wet smoke flowing from my chest,
burned by the fire of you in my imagination,
smiling at me with a red nose
while leaves fall around us as orange as the sun setting in the distance.

My mind sits cracked in half by two dreams:
one of which refuses to leave my head
and the other refuses to settle on the white screen in front of me.

Reality chills me and fantasy kills me
and nothing gets done.