most often i am better off
sitting in the window
leaving all those playful scenes
to see themselves out
and to make my own game
of love and
warm embraces
like the door were about to be
blown in
completely.
most days i just wait
and a chill seeps through
the panes
and into my skin of fractal ice
followed by a gentle draft
without the decency
to give a murmur in passing,
to provide a bite of conversation,
even if it's only out of
pity.
most of the time i'm frozen
i don't move,
or breathe,
or feel,
not even that intruding cold
pains me anymore,
save the white diamond sands
that shift and stir up a sparkling mist
shrouding absolutely
nothing.
it's empty out there
and empty in here
and i
am
blinded.
