It was always cold here.

Even when the green fingers of the earth pulled themselves out
into the glowing radiance
of an afternoon sun
and from the confines of the slop of mud
     --and dust
          --and dirt
               that they were dormant in.

It was always cold here.

Even when the night was spewing of freedom and of color.
A world away from the routine that kept us
like the walking dead.
When others ran around in nothing but undergarments, I sat
     --cross legged
         --with a can in my hand
               that was supposed to help me forget the cold.

But,
It was always cold here.
And colder now that you are gone.