It’s a cold bed that I sleep in. As I stand at the helm and look at it. A cold sea around my warm little body island. I daren’t stretch my limb and subject my toe to that water. It’s a cold bed I’ve kept here. Old before its time and nothing like the hot nest I kept at home.

There’s a mist about my bedroom. Sifting from wall to wall, and brandishing my hair about my face. The small exposed part from nostril to roots is outdoors, a little way down the street. Even in summer I kept it cold. Living in the wake of lovers, like a sulky Haversham. My Columbia flowers staying alive.

Make it warm for me. I want it hotter. I want mist to settle and turn to sweat on my skin. I want the endless fight. I want the need to drink, drink and spill over. I want it back, please, please. I want it all back.


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