Mittens

Started with a vision of winter. Developed into a metaphor for a relationship.

Holding hands with you with mittens on is sloppy.  Imprecise.

Grasping and squeezing in vain attempts to intertwine yet

feeling nothing.

Lonely digits desperately seek companions among your fingers

only find companions among themselves.

 

Our once warm bed binds us like fingers in mittens

But there’s simply no heat.

You’re the cold that choreographs the ghosts who waltz

on the wisps of wind-blown snow.

You’re the cold that forges icicles.

 

Our icicles won't fall when the sun rises.

Won’t shatter upon impact

Won’t slowly bleed out

It’s because the ghosts dance on.

It’s because the storm is orchestrated.  Rehearsed.

 

We shiver like mittened fingers.

I longingly grasp at hips and curves that once provided heat

But now throb with a dull, hoary ache.

an ache that burns like frost

an ache that simply isn’t forgiving enough

to take the mittens off.

Author's Note

My first public piece in a while.
It's raw in terms of subject matter as well as execution.
Work in progress, I suppose.