The Exchange
I didn't ask for the atmosphere of telephone clicks, and dial tones to be of comfort, but they are. I didn't call on anyone for self indulgent torture, but I find it pleasurable. The long monologue of sky conspiracies, and the snow cold truth at hand, I travelled too far from home, and now have to live under iced over lakes, frostbitten and shallow in my pride. I make music to the cracking ice, and make love to the chill. I learn to live with what I have, and not make any bets on what is inside of memories. May I find a lover to thaw me out of this ice for a night. To drink wine at his fire, and tell him it's my blood. He will tell a confession inside a rose wood box after I leave him, and before he takes my place under the ice.