Cold
In secret,
I want you to ask me
how I feel.
So I imagine,
I'll answer,
"I feel cold."
But not cold in any usual way.
Cold, as if my bones are made of ice.
Cold and stiff
are my muscles
as if every movement
is akin to scaling a mountain-side.
I'm hanging on
but my fingertips are slipping,
as the trees and buildings,
the people and voices
grow further away
with each breath I take.
I feel so cold,
as f I died too.
Oh, how I wish to say it.
Though I know,
you won't ask.
And if the occasion arises,
to real conversation.
I'll only nod,
half-smile,
and say nothing at all.
-Jo Resner
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