The sound of a warm body for a cold nightcan easily be mistaken for the hum of love,and maybe it was, for a second.This is the story of waiting on the redlinegoing towards Union Station where I thoughtof everything I hadn’t done today,and a date was waiting for me at a barI care too much for, the bar that is.How I misplaced a comma earlier in the dayin an email that’ll probably get me nowhere.Or how I was running fifteen minutes lateand you killed me, or thought of killing me,and I am easily confused between the twothese days. My skin is too alive for thisanxiety. My skin is too alive to be kissed bynobody again. My skin, my skin, my skin:I forget sometimes that you belong to me.Someone once told me I was the prize, sodip me in bronze and place me in the sun.Someone once told me I wasn’t going crazy,so tell that to my therapist I see once a week.Back to the story. I was listening to the trainon the tracks and I was reminded of longing.How I long to return home to you:you being me. You being the monster that isreally just a person dipped in bronze reflectingall of the light of the sun. You making senseof the swirl of neon and ocher in your headand figuring out what beautiful that created.Here I am holding a smile in a photograph:burn it. Here I am with the butterflies: clip theirwings and make me more human.Here I am, here I am, hereI am holding myself redefining what warmth is.
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