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.