Why Waste The Warmth?
I take a deep breath in.
But a deep breath doesn't make it out.
Somehow it's shallow, but it holds the depth of the sea.
I hum a plaintive howl for a thought: how might I be a warm creature?
And how might I, by nature, impart my warmth onto what I've consumed and the air condensed around me?
Yet I expel breath—breathed—cold and hollow.
I wish I had someone to acknowledge that they can see my breath collide with the atmosphere.
And I wish it had substance.
I'd howl my complaint rather than hum it, if only I could.
But I have no breath to waste, for I need what warmth I have.
I hope to know someone who'll breathe fresh air into me.
I wish I had the warmth of another to warm my breath if I cannot heat my own.
Or, at least, I wish to have someone who speaks with passion and warmth to counteract the coldness of my breath.
But I only have the wind to whisper to me.
I take a deep breath in. Or I try to.
I feel my lungs restrained by frost.
I take a shallow breath, and my chest barely moves.
And what's released can barely be called breath.
But my senses are dulled as the cold bites, causing everything to feel desensitised.
I mourn what I haven't lost, like these shivers.
But I have lost the shivers I'd experience from under a blanket as my skin's hue returns to pink.
One more time, I'll think of any rich and abundant meal that'd comfort me and repair my spirits.
Alongside embers crackling within the fireplace.
And I'll hope the kindling within me can reignite for another chance to feel an embrace.
But I fear my memories of warmth feel real enough to satisfy me.