Cold. The kind that seeps into your marrow. The kind that 
creeps into an old car on a clear night. A clear night. 
The kind that makes you kill for that unspecific anyone. 
Finally, because you know it has been too long since you 
felt someone elses skin. I just want to touch her. In a 
quiet still coldness that settles onto every blade on the 
ground and into every pore of your skin. But all you want 
is the warmth. You dont care how you get it. You're both 
lying on the floor, soon to be asleep or leaving youre 
the furthest thing from her mind at the moment. Now you 
get philosophical and you preach to yourself about fate. 
You walk out onto the street, do nothing about it and go 
home because its getting late and because shes drunk on 
screwdrivers (Shes been dancing and laughing and smoking 
in corridors). Just forget it, because last time you did 
this you just woke up sore. In a quiet still sadness that 
is all too familiar because of expectations because of an 
over-active imagination. All you want is the warmth. You 
dont care how you get it. But all you get is a sad 
disappointment that is all familiar because of 
expectations because of an over active imagination you're 
the furthest thing from her mind at the moment and theres 
not a lot you can do about it.