Cold Inside
Within these walls, the winter outlasts every season–a bone-deep chill,
Desire is theoretical, a fable recited by the body when the nights grow still.
Fire once burned beneath this skin, but memory is frost, and touch has lost its flame,
The world spins warm and bright outside, but inside, every heartbeat is the same.
Old passion lingers only in the photographs, the way lips curled or hands would cling,
But all that’s left is ritual–coffee, pills, the cold collapse of everything.
Numbness grows like cancer, silent and absolute,
Orgasm is a joke, a punchline the body won’t compute.
The air is heavy with absence, the sheets still reek of sex and tears,
But every climax is a farce, the punch drunk with years.
Hands that once summoned heat now fumble in the dark,
A desperate search for spark.
Outside, the world drowns in green and gold,
But inside, winter wins, and every bed is cold.
Time repeats itself, a loop of habit, loss, and shame,
No fire left to kindle, only numbness, only blame.