I want to
light
a
fire.
I want to
smell
the wood
burning.
I want to
pull a chair close to
the stove.
I want to
feel
the warmth, that different
kind of warmth. A closer
warmth.
A warmer
warmth.
A hotter
warmth that gets closer to your soul, gets inside,
really inside.
Instead,
I turn the thermostat
up to 65.
The temperature
goes up,
but the warmth
doesn’t
seep,
doesn’t
snuggle up,
doesn’t
reach the cockles
(whatever those
are).
In fact,
the warmth
is
cold, if that’s possible,
and
I think
it is.
So, I shiver, even
though
I’m not
cold.
I’m just not warm.
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This touched me. I understand how warmth can be cold. I wrote something to that effect in "Dark" - the only poem i've ever had published.
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