The Only Place of Warmth

The last thing I remember
Before waking in a wooden box
Was that I was falling asleep
Against a craning tree
Watching the sun barely peeking out
And I recall the feel of 
The dew on the grass
The tops of my legs getting 
Baked by the coming day
The look in her eyes
(Violent hurricanes spinning in each of them)
Was fading from view
I remember a crowd advancing
They were shuffling, speaking in a hush
No one could believe it
They kept saying,
“I… I can’t believe it”
It sounded ridiculous
As if they forgot any other phrase
But there I was-
I remember how cold I began to feel
Despite the morning heat pouring in
The shade of blue that became of my hands
I tried to laugh, tried to explain
But it didn’t seem to matter
The only place of warmth
Exuded from a section of my stomach
And if I wasn’t dying so much, 
I would’ve been able to see what it was
So as I lie here, I ponder two things:
I wonder how this pine would smell
If my organs weren’t shut down and
I wonder why I ever told you
That I keep a gun under my pillow