I could stop you if I wanted,
but part of me wants to bleed
out all I have left.
Sweet, sweet, bittersweet and sweet again,
Ink running out from underneath an exhausted pen.
Write, I plead you; bring what was once bereft
of life and love
the want and need
to will against the closing end.
“Aren’t you cold?” they asked, shivering in their jackets. The weather outside begged me for a day of blue jean shorts and a floral cut-out top, but the air conditioning was on an unreasonable high in the room. At least, for them.
“I’m a wolf; I don’t get cold.”