Litkicks Message Board Archive

cold hands

Posted to Action Poetry




i am the soul
in question.
four am phone calls,
numb fingers grappling plastic.
i'd rather not speak to you.

you tell me that we're just friends,
and i remind you silently
that we're nothing but
dead lumps of coal
in a furnace that was never lit.

while whispering madly
that relationships take effort,
i hum quiet mantras
of devotion
dedicated to someone else.

you say you must be off.
i shed a tear; not for you,
but for the blue sky
split open above me,
which i can never reach.