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