my hands are cold
they're frozen really
my fingers are stiff
barely moving, barely able

her hands are warm
they're pleasant really
her fingers are flexible
always moving, always able

she wraps my arthritic hands in her own
kisses my palm softly with heated lips
she pretends that it doesn't hurt her
that it doesn't sharply pierce her skin

the reality of the situation is that i am far too cold
the most electrifying of touches will never help
i am beyond saving, cannot be thawed

Please, be safe.

Please, know I love you.

Please, know I didn't mean to miss you.

Please, know I can't wait to see you more than anything.

And please. Know I'm scared.

tiny flames leap high
for only a few seconds before they die,
blown out by gust of your superiority.

the room may have been alight for only seconds, yes
but that short time illuminated your surroundings
and nothing was left hidden

in a year the flames will have another chance
to fight against your supremacy
and try to one day give colour to your dark room

What right have you
to tell her she's not beautiful
to press her till she can't breathe
to make her believe she's nothing?

What right have you
to push her around
to deflate her self esteem
to carve her heart out?

What right?

None.

So *******.

empty beds and wrinkled sheets
are all i remember from that week
a pillow to support me
not much, only barely
and a blanket to keep me warm

with both arms outstretched
i cannot reach the edges
if i roll side to side
i'll never fall to unforgiving ground
i'll only ever be drifting over cotton sheets

the sun shines through linen curtains
casting shadows across a soft gentle face
i impulsively turn towards the light
which a smile tugging at the corner of my silent lips
i spend the day happy, laying in my empty bed

I'm sitting on my bed, wrapped up in a red, fluffy blanket and I'm thinking about how touch confuses me
Any touch, between the shoulders of friends, a soft punch at your sibling, an arm wound tightly around you by someone who doesn't want to let go-
It's all so intimate
Yet it lacks intention, direction
I mean, is it a touch of compassion? Is it playfulness, or something with much more gravity, emotions too powerful to wear a name?
Sometimes the situation lends itself to interpretation, but most of the times it is more like the way the clouds seem to caress the moon at night
And I don't comprehend
I freeze.
I find myself looking out of the corners of my eyes more often
Other people never seem to react this way, but even with the simplicity of physical connection, I can't help but look for an ulterior meaning
Fearing the untamed world of touch almost as much as I crave to be a part of it

And maybe that's why I don't understand it

Maybe I'm confusing touch with my desire to feel something, anything at all
Maybe I'm confusing touch with the feel of someone noticing I'm slipping away and anchoring me to the ground
Maybe I'm thinking that every touch I gather is another rung on the ladder to climbing out of this hellish land titled depression, where the silver glimmers of light cut almost as deep as the darkness itself, and where only once a year you remember to love yourself
I know that touch can't do that, but

Somewhere between my ears, a voice tells me it can.
It tells me to hold very, very still, holding my breath until stars explode before my sight,
Until I am kneeling before the boy with endless eyes
He smiles, wrapped in the cloak of the night and reaches between my ribs to stroke away the beating of my heart
It silences
And Death reaches down to wrap me in his arms, cradling my soul into eternity...

I abruptly climb off my bed, unwinding myself from the suffocating grip of my red blanket
The touch of its fabric against my skin too much right now
Too much right now
I think I've done enough thinking for tonight.

Everyone has a a billowing pillow that's larger than their troubles sitting at the bottom of their cliff.

It's comforting, it's warm, and suffocating as you land on such sweet bliss.

The pillow envelops you, compacting you in a small, tight cocoon.

The pressure forces you to to gulp in air and squeeze your eyes shut tight.

"Everything will be fine," they whisper. "No need to fright."

And suddenly, as you're wrapped up in a pillow, everything seems to be all right.

He called me a chameleon once.
The words fell like sweet thick honey that matched his sandy blonde hair.
It fell just over his eyes. I had to duck and search to meet his gaze.
He told me that I acted like a mother to one, and a daughter to another.
He told me that he had yet to figure out my true colours.

I only smiled.

He studied me carefully everyday afterwards.
Peering, leering, examining every last breath that left my lips.
I chuckled, and allowed it, knowing he could spend his life dedicated to studying me yet never find the answer he was looking for.
A chameleon can only blend in with what surrounds them,
fire, blue skies, dark blizzards, animated companions.

A chameleon can never see the colour of its own skin, because it's too busy trying to match everyone else.