Stone Cold

I cannot lay still in shadowed hours. Legs like clockwork in and out of heavy sheets. I’m on exhibition to the thoughts peeking from within. Foolish boy with a play-set dream.

I whisper out to my white-washed confinement, searching for the parting of lips to end the silence. Nothing but my own fears respond. A wish once answered is best not received. 

Once I reached out just far enough to grasp the fingertips of another. Frigid and wet with salt water. I held them to my heart to restore once warm veins and flesh but I suppose drowned things prefer the murk.

Insanity clawed at my eyelids, forcing my eyes to see secret terrors. I whispered then too but the lyrics of my song went spiraling. Syllables sent crashing, echoing back into my lap but they answered back.

The stone cold silence of my bedroom reminds me of you. Sitting quietly in the company of delusions, I weep for the presence of warmth. Casting wishes not for you beside me but for you to understand the sun. For you to be able to recall the light on your face and a smile, blossoming from joy.

But this room is frigid and maybe that’s as close as I can get to a dream. I hate that I miss the smell of salt water and the touch of ice cold temperament.

Do I have to destroy the heat in my chest? Become like concrete weighed down to the golden sandbars out west. 

Ice cold and smelling of salt water, look at the likes of us!