The Cold Hours

The cold hours pull at me,
tug at me and twist,
frosted memories
of previous evenings,
previous nighttimes,
previous lives,
writhing at my bedsheets,
knifing at my heat.
The cold hours flattening,
rolling over memories of joy,
dampening enthusiasm,
pasting over smiles
with unrepeatables
I cannot reply to.
The cold hours chill
with little thought to life,
spooning my soul
in an iced embrace
with little hope of a thaw.
Midnight is their time,
their temperate moment.
I hate the cold hours,
but they seem to love me


2 thoughts on “The Cold Hours”

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