The cold makes my fingers sting, even when I push my hands
deep into my pockets, this season’s grip firmly on me as I count off the days
until I can again be free.
I’m farther out in the wilderness than I recall from before,
with nothing to spark life back into my aching limbs except by my own
invention, the illusion of romance lingering as I drift off to sleep at night,
and still clings to me when I wake in the morning, sunset, sunrise, neither
able to do for me when I wish it could be otherwise, someone to hold my hand in
the cold, someone to keep me warm sleeping beside me, thinking of her most
during those chill nights when I need her warmth, need her to rekindle me, and
make it possible to get through the night.
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