Cold Room
I give you everything—
All my jokes, my wild ideas,
My mornings with the blinds half-open,
My body curved into yours like a question mark.
And you—
You sit there, a static channel,
A storm trapped behind glass.
I talk, and my words fall flat,
Sliding off you like rain on a waxed coat.
You nod when you think you should,
But I can feel the weight of your absence
Pressing me into the floorboards.
​
I ask you if you’re okay.
You say, “Yeah.”
It sounds like a full stop,
A door slammed in my face.
​
I try harder.
I make coffee like you like it,
I sing stupid songs to the cat,
I turn myself into light,
Hoping to reach you,
Hoping to burn away the fog.
​
But you don’t move.
You don’t warm.
You stay frozen in your grief,
And I feel myself becoming ice too.
​
How much of me do I have to give
Before you look up?
Before you see me standing here,
Barefoot, raw,
Holding every piece of me
Like an offering you didn’t ask for?
​
I wish you’d tell me
If there’s a reason you’ve closed the door
And locked yourself inside.
I wish you’d tell me
If I’m supposed to wait
Or if you’ll ever let me in.
​
Because this cold room is killing me.
And I can’t keep making fires
When you’re the one holding the matches.​