Oct 30, 2015
Cold
There was more of her once. In soft, smeared moments, she can still remember the warmth of life. The flesh and blood and spit of it. It was a long time ago. Now all that’s left of her is a small patch of cold. If food’s left out, she’ll try to taste it. If a book’s left open, she’ll slink onto its pages, leaving them mildewed. During the day she waits by the door, greeting any guests, but never goes outside. This is her home. She remembers that, too. At night she crawls into bed with whichever man’s sleeping in her old bedroom. She inches up his body, onto his chest. Every night she kisses him until he feels her cold in his lungs.
