Burnt Hands

I don't remember you quite this warm. It's been forever since I stormed up the idea. Those days of unfortunate and cruel rains, And yet we return like we do, With past feelings attenuated, But, partially awoken from just existing. Like the shade needed to watch a plant grow, And reach away from the shadows, Towards the sun again. Selfishly clinging and suffocating, Entrapping ourselves on the nonplussed ponder. In search for a better tomorrow, But, never forgetting our yesterdays. A repeated cycle that won't break. With closeness fading in and out like dim light, And yet we sit here, Hands over the warmth, Not wanting to get cold. And with premonished thoughts neglected, I stay here for you. To keep the heat alive, Never letting another downpour ensue. Gripping to remorseful knowledge, And staying reluctant to the suggestion. In an attempt to rekindle a fire never forgotten. Just so we can stay warm, And survive though the night. With scars from our burnt hands, Still there.