Maybe it’s because the weather’s been so unusual here lately, but all my metaphors are cold. I am cold and can’t seem to get warm. Under blankets and layers my fingers are ice.
I feel bare and pressed against a frosted pane of glass. Exposed without relief.
I have been reading poems about loss. Sitting with them, letting them lap against me. The places they touch turn to frozen fire.
I feel hollow and scraped on the inside. Like bones without teethmarks.
It’s one of those times. Those hard, shivering, aching times.
Think of me kindly, would you?
always. (((hugs))). I’d offer you some hot chocolate, but I know how you feel about such things. Some tea, perhaps?
You are a gem!!! {{{{{{{{hugs}}}}}}}}}
Fenny
Thinking of you much kindly and such… xoxo
Oh, Sharoney. I love you and I love your cold metaphors.