Heat Stroke

A beige glove misses its lover as it sits on a barren coffee table

Awaiting the door to open and bring the cold winter air in

With a few flurries and snowflakes to bid it come play

With the wind that stole its lover last night.

 

The door stays shut. Locked. Colder inside

Than out.

No papers next to the lonely glove as it keeps watch and keeps

Hope.

 

It’s 35 degrees outside

Just above a frozen heart.

So the heart must endure this near-death just barely alive on a technicality and a persistent body that wont listen to a mind and soul that have given up

Just a few degrees is all I need…to feel that the air in this empty house is subarctic.

 

I am that glove awaiting the return of my partner to make me whole.

But all I do is sit here with the same empty smile and blank stare on my face.

 

I don’t turn the TV on.

I don’t make any phone calls.

I don’t leave this room.

 

I sit next to my glove.

Because we don’t have our lovers. But at least we have each other.

A brown piece of old dirtying cloth is my new partner

For the cold winter ahead.

 

It will keep me half-warm. And I will give it half-purpose.

We will play half-games at half-love.

In this half winter of Summertime that I’ve forgotten all about

Because half is all we have left.

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About heathencomehome

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