It used to be that your stares held me in a captured moment,
framed and mounted on your wall,
as if my current expression would be stuck forever on my face.
Your eyes are cold, and so am I.

It used to be that your skin radiated heat like a wood stove with only the coals left burning,
I loved laying in your arms, imagining that you had laid in the sun all day.
Your fists are cold, and they are hard.

Now imagine a secret so powerful that it could carry the weight of your father--
for God knows he is a heavy soul.
I cannot hold that for you; I'm done.
My imagination is dry, and it is used up.

You slur your dreams and
pour black paint into the mouths of those you care for
until their eyes run still.
My heart is frozen in a block of ice,
but you used the icepick to hack off your toenails and then put it into the recycle.

What do you want?

It used to be that your heart blanketed the stars during the day,
holding safe the dreams that were almost close enough to touch.
My fingers yearn to grab, my eyes ache to close,
and all I can do is miss the feeling of wrapping myself inside of you like a blanket,
until my dreams took me, and you would slip away and fly.