I think holding onto the past
is like holding onto that guy
you met drunk at a bar
but took you home instead
          and 'home' symbolically
          is the side of an abandoned warehouse
          so no one would catch you fucking.
          Since, of course, being seen is
          The Worst Thing Ever
          and being 'together'
          only works if no one knows about it
after your sex fogged up the windows
and made the icy January night
warm with new thoughts, like
          maybe someone else needs
          touch like I do. And matter is
          more than just mass and space
          when you share it with someone...

what if we could stay warm?
What if I didn't have to change?

But then the warmth goes away
and the tendrils of Winter
claw at the windows and doors
and sneak in through the cracks
you thought you sealed
with stray socks and blankets...
          then he kicks you out
          and tells you
          'you're on your own now'

but I know one day
you'll build another fire
somewhere.