This heart isn't home anymore.
The numbers on the mailbox are faded and curling,
Destination undetermined.
The people and places in the photographs are foreign,
Yet they point at me in my cell of isolation and cast stones.
The suffocation of the warmth
Constantly battles the harshness of the cold.
Neither ever wins,
But I'm always caught in the crossfire.
The other day,
I hurled a ray-less lamp at the window
And called for a legion of pigeons
To carry my breathless cry for miles.
Fifty messages went out.
Only one returned:

my dear,
i'll be seeing you.