blankness.

The past and coming days are shorter; and colder and longer nights and it can only touch me, numb my face, make me cold enough to regret not bringing my jacket but this is chill that only the body can feel, and it is fatal at best but not cold enough, never cold enough.
there is no other way
Tomorrow, I am going somewhere else colder and where it's easier to die from exposure but still not cold enough, never will be cold enough and I will take a walk in its city streets, a stranger getting stranger still.
for this is the only way
I can only clench my fists and seethe at fate, having realized that I have really come back from the dead. I have also resurrected an emotion I knew I had buried so deep, that it can only raise vague apparitions of its former self, but now it harbors inside me again; still, but restless and burning.
to love
I rage again and no cold will ever be cold enough, except the cold that came from the fires and flames that willed themselves to embers and eventual ashes; chill from the death of passion and emotions that burned brighter than a thousand suns is the only chill that can freeze me.
and I only want it to be you
my hands are cold, and I can only want for those other pair of hands to warm them, I can only want and need but not dream about the warmth, since I can hear fate cackle its loud wild uneasy laugh every time that I do. I put them inside my pockets, in time to face the biting cold of this evening and turn myself outside in where I am cold and burning, but never cold enough.
You.