February and the pleasure of touch

When you hold me by the loose uneven strand of hair that changes color by each ray of sunlight, when your eyes travel the tissues of my cheek and with every motion of the gaze I turn a deeper shade of pink, magenta, fuschia and purple, when your breath vibrates the air molecules that knock at my ear drum and make a hot orange splash that drowns my brain, I wonder: Is this February or the divine pleasure of touch or just me stuck in your old frame?