Categories
Poetry

Cold Hands, Cold Heart

Day 7 Prompt: Cold

Day 7 is Cold. Appropriate to write as I’m currently in New Jersey, where the northeast winters can hit temperatures below 0.

The cold played a significant part of my emotional development. Many struggles and heartbreaks took place within the back drops of cold seasons, and I’ve come to look fondly at winter seasons and cold weather. Almost like the cold wrapped me in a blanket of familiarity and comfort.


To me, cold is change. Cold is logic. Cold is looking back at a breakup or mistake like a surgeon finding a tumor. Sometimes, we need to look back at our experiences after the emotions have cooled off so we can see what went wrong, if anything did, so we can move on and learn from the experience.

I.

I trace the words
of your lament on my skin,
as I step onto the Broad St. / Elizatbeth
station platform. I

unzip my jacket, reveal
my hands from their warm
pocket havens,
ready to embrace you.

I breathe you in, my
skin a pallid minefield,
hair follicles alerted by
your arrival, exploding

under your weight. My
dead skin flakes off, dried
and brittle, as I make room
for new skin. I exhale

you out, You show me
proof that I’m still breathing.
Invisible currents suddenly
exposed, I see a spectrum of

colors ignored under the heat
of Summer days. Your winter
shows mercy, slowing down
minutes from the abyss,

stalling my pocket watch
a few milliseconds slower. The
passengers fear your austerity,
and wrap their winter coats

closer against their flesh.

II.

Warmth is overrated.
In the heat of passions,
cold logic cannot stand
on its own, no emulsions

between emotion and intellect.
No chance to analyze a
heart’s fracture, or find where
the fibers fissured,

which muscle cells were
weakest. Without cold,
I cannot know where
to begin healing. Without cold,

I could not stop the spread
of my depression, metastasizing
future memories, blinded in my
misery, I shut my eyes to

the cold. Without you,
I could not start anew.

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