Where It Is Found

The persistent cold beneath blankets and quilts that chills to the bone despite layers of clothes— The cup of coffee forgotten, left to cool on the counter. The ache within a grounded heart for wings like a bird; the one left behind when all else fly south. That’s where it is found. It cannot be dispelled. Slowly it creeps up brick-walled hearts like unyielding ivy, crawling up up up Until something so cold is now so alive, swallowed in green, choked in leaves. It’s the feeling in the depths of the moonlight in which I rest my hand upon emptiness— the emptiness where your head should lie. And I feel the warmth drain out in slow rain on my cheeks, until I settle into comfortable numbness despite the chill in my bones and the cup you left on the counter and the dull ache in my shoulders where wings should have grown.