Cold air awakens my senses,
my thoughts of despair and destitution,
reminding me of my loneliness and heartache.
I have no one to call my love,
my empathy, my warmth
of comfort and forgiveness.
You say, they say, everyone says to wait,
progress within yourself
but I cannot surrounded by the cold empty.
Like a drum I sound out within penetrating outward,
waiting desperately to be heard on a vacant stage,
in a deserted auditorium and folded chairs.
Where is this warmth others engulf themselves?
In apathetic understanding of my heartache?
In their contented sighs, exhaling the chill?
This cold air haunts me like a mist of something old and used,
waiting for my insensitive rapture
when I least expect it; so I hold it at bay.
I sleep in the daylight, away from the sun's sweet
kissing my flesh to exquisite warmth
and walk in this tingling night's air.
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