I sit inside by the fire,
Warm and toasty; wrapped by layers
Of padded quilt and sipping heavily steeped tea.
There are drafts and words crumpled
Before my feet. Miserable failures them all,
All except the few burning in the fire.
Through my window I can see a storm,
White swirls that pierce an endless darkness.
I want to go out and feel.
You are at home; asleep in bed
Dreaming of another, of warmth and light
And all the girls you’ve yet to plunder.
The fire can be beautiful to see,
But the house, the walls, the family
Don’t call for me.
The dark, the cold, the bitter biting snow,
That is where I long to be.
To be frozen and in your arms.
There is beauty in a raging storm,
In the layers of snow and shadows,
But you can’t see that.
That I’m unnerved by the warmth,
When I know how easily it is put out.
How temporarily I can hold on to you.
I never thought I’d try
To live in a house ordinary and wistful,
But I do- for you.
I sit inside by the fire,
Melting like snow introduced to flames,
Only wanting , craving my ice.
Another log into the fire…
