It Pains Me

It pains me.

This winter smells and even
feels like the last.

Cold air turns my cheeks
a naive colour of red
and the wind whistles
cat calls at me,
pushing at my ankles and
following along the salted streets.

I know strangers with strange faces
their eyes are so blue and dialated.

To them,
Winter is old beer and cigarettes,
ashtrays on window sills
and numerous bodies asleep in the livingroom
piled together; collectables.
They nap like drunken children
and I've caught them sucking their thumbs.

To me,
Winter is wet pavement, sweatshirts,
two bodies, nobodies
walking and talking in circles,
secrets serving as a second tongue.

The weather seems to insist upon
this dramatic change.
Consider yourself a monument,
consider yourself enslaved.

It's like the ice I nearly
killed myself on to get in the car.
It's what waking up cold feels like.
It's the thing that you care so much about
and have no idea why:
Love.

It pains me.