I press my frigid fingers against the radiator to make them
warm, aching for something softer when hard metal is all I have, memory of more
gentle places has to do me, this chill comes each time this year, clinging to
me like an unwanted child, I bear it because I have no choice and seek the warmth
of ribs of steel rather than the more tender folds of flesh I most ache for,
the recollection of what that felt like, how warm, how soft, how moist, how its
scent lingered long after I ceased to touch, too much for too little time, its
warmth dying more for me inside than this overheated metal can, when all I really
have is a memory.
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