Colder inside this house
Than in the evening sun outside.
I suppose old buildings
Breathe, like all
Living things do.

Aloneness. Never lonely.
Why was I meant for
Solitude? The despair it
Provokes within those who
Wish to

Connect is as much my
Burden as theirs.
To belong to and own.
Spacelessness. Sharing
My whole self. No.

I wish them more warmth
Than anyone will ever find
With me,
Yet I hear the voices
Of mothers shielding

Daughterhearts with double
Edged shields;
Don't be afraid
Child. It's only the
Devil.

I suppose all I'll
Ever need is another odd
Soul like mine, waving from
Inside another freezing, distant
Dwelling.

My hands are winters.
My chest is a cave so cold
My tears well up
Like mounds of
Snowflakes, and fly.

Having tempered myself beyond
My limits, I withdraw to default;
The arctic within; home. Your
Fire is blinding. I only have
Ice for you.