The Cold

I am cold and I don’t know why. Sun kissed hairs stand translucent on rising goose bumps. My face is warm to feel through untouched stubble. My chest rises and falls, silent breathing in the night, lonely pain from within. Wrapped up in a blanket, with a sweater and pants matching in same hue, tube socks stretched to length, yet the coldness grows.  A half cup of tea sits dormant before me, quenching neither thirst nor cold, replaced in hand by 12 year old scotch. The chair I sit on rocks on hindquarters, wishing for rest on hinges, not beneath my figure.  You called me, in the middle of the night, my heart raced at the sound of your voice. You sounded calm, said you wanted me to come over, and so I came. That was two days ago, no sign of you, your door was unlocked, and so I have remained. I stand outside your door at nights in the rain, just so I can feel something, just so the rain that lands on my face can cover the sadness that falls with it. I get up from the chair; take the scotch in one hand and the tea cup in the other. I place the scotch bottle back into the cupboard and wash out the cup. I lay on the couch, click on the TV and think about you until I drift to sleep, hoping that tomorrow will be a better day, wishing to hear your voice again.

The End

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