Warm Hands

Cold, my hands were cold again that night,
It was the same yesterday, cold hands like all nights.

Even when it snowed, even when it rained.

Never were my hands this cold, always warm.

I talked to him that morning,

I talked to her that morning,

No one willing to listen, no one to lend a shoulder to cry on,

My hands were cold that night.

Numbers, I dialed, countless,

Messages, I left many,

My words…. Were always, weightless.

My brain…. A blackhole,

Twisted and hurting are my insides,

The night is lighter than my soul…

I woke up this morning, Pulled back the curtains,

The sky looked depressed,

Tears in the form of rain.

That day, I decided, I sat and I talked to myself.

I laughed like there was no tomorrow,

I cried for eternity.

There was an empty happiness inside me.

My perfections were flawed…

My name called but unknown.

A weight had been slowly, painfully but finally lifted.

That night, I turned off the lights, but there was still some left.

I looked out the window and there she was shiny and bright,

The moon, Luna.

I didn't close the curtains that night, the windows remained open,

Cold wind blew in…

I rubbed my eyes and my hands were gaining color again.

They felt welcoming,

My hands were warm again……

-SCZ