When the cold slips in,

I can feel my heart start ticking,

like a time bomb waiting to fracture.

And I wish the sound didn’t hurt you,

but by the looks of things, it already has.

And I wish my soul would scald a dove’s wing

because I am more empty than pure;

more fed up with forevermore.

Yet sleep is somehow comforting.

I revel in its sores

—still bruising, since yesterday’s summer.