Bob rushes through the doorway,
eyeglasses gesturing in his hand,
"Darn lens all fogged up," he grumbles.
His tousled hair, in spikes from gusts;
snow sticks to his week old beard;
disturbed blue eyes, glare;
masculinity, is converged, and vulnerable.
Leaning into him, with tweaking tight buns,
I wrap a leg around his,
steal a kiss from his moist lips;
blow into his cold ear, and whisper,
"You need a defrosting Macho Man!"