The cold
is so bitter.
It claws
and bites
and nips
but
I can feel it.
There's a crime scene, chalk man drawing on the other side of the bed,
999.
The posters read "Missing - Somebody Who Cares."
I lie next to it and imagine my hair being stroked,
my cheek being touched,
whispers in my ear that tickle like reeds in the wind
and cause crashes like waves colliding with the shore.
The clock ticking wakes me from my thoughts.
I'll spew flowers,
create fires with my hands,
write novels
and spear hearts with my words -
if only somebody would listen.
A daisy can't live forever.
It will shrivel and wither and die when winter closes in.
It feels like autumn.