Sitting in an empty room
filled with heat,
hugging you close,
A lick of a breeze passes by,
the air turns one degree colder than before,
the cold creeps in ever so slowly,
where is it coming from?
This room has no doors,
windows or crevices.
But the warmth is escaping
leaving in its midst
The cold ebbing towards
the tips of my fingers and toes,
they say the extremities go first.
The cold creeping up on you in the dark,
like shadows dancing on the walls,
sneaking up on me when my back is turned.
The cold creeps ever so slowly,
clinging to the material woven in to string,
string into cloth,
cloth into clothes.
The cold vile and unseen
but it’s presence ever felt.
I know its there.
I can’t move.
Can’t block it out.
Any movement creates a vacuum of space
pulling the cold ever closer.
It’s a losing game it is,
the one we fight with the cold.
Before you know it,
even in the warm months,
it will slowly find its way back,
shocking my system
worse than I remembered it could be,
the warmer months were just a false pretense of gullibility.
So I welcome back those glacial winters,
with my warm arms open
heat escaping me,
into the waiting cold.
Cause it’s waiting.
And before I know it,