he is made of winter
the bed feels cold.
the lack of you lingers in the sheets
and in my ribcage. a laugh
gets caught before it leaves my lips
you were never here.
it would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic;
if i wasn’t so pathetic and lonesome and heavy and draining and filthy.
i am filthy with thoughts of you.
your fingerprints mark my body,
you’ve claimed me as your own
but the bed is still cold.
the timbre of your voice
sits on my spine and
lays waste to this body of mine
when it falls
i’d rather be alone
than be alone with that voice.
so just slice me where you would kiss me; bleed me dry;
hang my soul on a blossoming tree
and leave me in the sun
because the bed is too cold
and i am frozen.