Parataxis Exercise

The Cold Bolder
A stray wisp of hair caresses an ivory face
Stone lips suddenly quirk in irritation,
a pale hand brushes away the disobedient lock.

It's much windier here, in Moscow:
The chill rolls down the mountains
and through the city
like an unfurled carpet.

"Hey Tory, are you cold?"
"Of course not. Why else would I be here with you?"
But you are.