Not a warmth, a cinder.


I put myself in this stairwell,
No shoes, no skin, no fears, no heat.
I am as cold as you made me.
“Chill of circumstance”, you say.
“Under the same sun”, I say.

Bold as I am, yes.
Cold as I am, yes.
No courage to walk away.
I wish for heat, no.
I wish to flee, no.

I am bound by the passim of your touch.
It scatters warmth.
Just to keep me alive.
Not enough to rouse me from this comatose.

This static,
This hunger,
This empty longing,
Just enough to make me think…
You’re the reason I’m breathing.


About lucaszuniga

Aspiring artist and seeker of all relevant truth.
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