Heat,

runs over my neck

slowly crawls around

tracing the insides of my

sleeves, lingering for some

time on this shawl,

grey and brown,

borrowed and bold.

Heat, gets into my earlobe,

kisses it, and stays,

makes a home inside,

lights up a campfire.

Warmth, that is what

longing feels like

even on the coldest

winter morning,

it feels as if you are

inside a cave

and outside the Siberian

winds are blowing,

But inside you are

warm, holding your

hands over a bonfire,

packing firewood for

tomorrow, and waiting.

Longing feels like

waiting, covered in

concealed, but

beautiful.

Heat runs

over my hands,

it makes love to

my fingers,

and I can almost hear

the tune of a song long

forgotten,

a place long forgotten,

a person I used to be,

a person long forgotten.

Heat, runs over my lips,

it smiles, and then it

leaves,

as I take the shawl

off and wear it again

this time tighter

because the cold has returned,

a cold long-forgotten

has returned.

Art: 'Jude Hunched' by B Jeppson


This piece has been authored by Yastika Sharma, co-founder and outreach manager at The Night Owl Writes.

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