Floating in space amongst the stars
with nothing to push off of,
and nothing to hold on to
is the most terrifying place
for a man to be.

Yet it has become the norm.
All zipped up snug and tight,
safe in our space suits
we cannot reach one another.

But to take off this helmet
for one fleeting kiss is to risk
asphyxiation.

I'm having one of those days
Where my thoughts go South
And breathing gets tough
And icicles stick to my
Vocal chords
And the snow is so thick
That my blood striped hand
In front of my face
Disappears.
And eventually
After a while
I need a map
To find my way back
North.
But I'm so far South
That my fingers are too frigid
To make a snowman.
And my mind's too numb
To think South anymore.

I think
moss is growing,
webs are forming,
poison ivy is creeping,
weeds are sprouting,
willows are weeping,
inside my chest.
I can hear the echo
of a tiny,
wavering voice,
calling down the
wishing well cavern
inside my rib cage.
"Help me..."
"Don't forget me..."
My shriveled,
weary heart
thumps
and
drums
feebly against my flesh,
crying out for attention,
creating tremors,
earthquakes,
in my overgrown,
suffocating,
internal garden.
The ripples,
in the pools resting on my chest,
tell me
"You're still there."

"Don't give up."

My hands are cold.
The blood doesn’t settle there;
my fingertips are empty.

My fingertips are empty.
If a butterfly kissed them,
I wouldn’t feel it.

I wouldn’t feel it if
you told me goodbye -
my heart is a scar.

My heart is a scar.
It struggles to beat,
trapped in longing like that.

Trapped in longing like that,
it’s hard to watch you.
You warm my heart.

You warm my heart.
I want you to warm my body as well.
My hands are cold.