BY OLIVIA PISCITELLI

The air pokes its frozen little fingers

Into the hole in the knee of my pants.

The urgent, childlike tickle lingers

And crawls up my leg like millions of ants.

 

Your warm hand moves to cover the tear,

And the chill pulls its raw hand away.

You smile wide and lean back in your chair

As the snow flurries dance a sad ballet.

 

When will the feeling decay or fade?

When will the colors run off the page?

Flake off, or change their shade?

When will I see that I’m trapped in a cage?

 

Soon enough you’ll take your hand back

And my place in your heart will fade to black.

 

Comment