Froot Loops @ Midnight

...

Written for you as you while I read a book written for neither of us but somehow as both

When something, metal or hard plastic and cold, presses against your leg, leaving its cool imprint branded on your thigh even after tens of minutes, turning to halves and then hours since it being taken away. The same feeling can be felt with you, for even after weeks of minutes, turning to months and then years, your imprint around my waist and arms still brand me, chilling my bones as I walk through the days that I defy as lonely, although admitting that would be the first truth I have told myself in months.

I miss your hugs. Although I have only felt them one, twice, three times, but that was enough to know you were something I would carry in my pocket, no matter the size, for as long as the weight would let me, being years. Until your written name reminding me that you still had a life worth living convinced me that although pockets fit poems and you fit a poem perfectly, words are really no ones to own. For even the writer accepts this willingly as he sprawls ink onto the page. 

But you were pages of verse that then became an illustration, and I find that harder to let go of than a couple of lines. 

So be the poetry with me. You'd say, for even though your head dreamt dreams of different views, you loved me, not unlike I had for you. For although I longed for your closeness and yearned for your fingertips to too, reach for mine, you never had to stay. And yet.

And I loved you for it. So much that it causes shivers as I think about it, curled into a ball with my bare feet entangled within the cool sheets, for my limbs still feel your vacancy as cold and hard and breath snatching as a freezing shower forced upon you on a lonely February day, due to the lack of warmth in the water heater. Its synchronicity impeccable to life as it is in moments like this.