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Fuzzy Socks

I complain to my exasperated parents

every other day about the cold in

my room.

When I sit, committed, at my

desk to write my poetry,

I ache with the

persistent shivers.

Since my parents claim to have

tried countless times to rid my

quarters of their

Antarctican feel, I've learned

to just layer up.

Wear fuzzy socks and hoodies,

thirstily bringing the mug of tea to

my trembling lips.

Last night, while I lay restless on

the stained carpet of my igloo,

something odd transpired.

Over the phone, my friend's

muffled voice

asked, "How are you?"

Her tone was a knowing one.

In an instantaneous moment of

longing and necessity,

your name fumbled across my lips.

The rest followed.

Her indifference was evident

in the silence, but not even the

shaking of my small voice was enough

to stop me. Not even the unbearable cold was

enough to stop me from ranting, not painlessly, about you.

I miss you. I need you. I want you. Where are you? I love you.

"At least, I think I do."

That's when something unheard of occurred and

I was forced to endure an eternal pause in time.

As the words fell from my mouth, I felt an inhumane

wave of heat overcome my tense limbs and bring

approving red complexion to my perplexed face.

A sauna now, instead of the chilling freezer to which

I'd become so horribly accustomed. No shivering.

My pulse slowed to a painstaking pace, as heat

—I'd always wanted warmth, but not this burning—

increased at the same rate with which I had spoken

your name. Heat, silence, desire, and your name.

She told me it was late, that I should

really try to get a little bit of sleep.

I couldn't stop thinking of, saying, your name,

addicted to this heat, this new yet preferable discomfort.

I finally asked myself, "Cold indifference or

hot desire? Painfully hot longing?"

I took off my fuzzy socks, lifted the hoodie

over my head, and crawled sweating into bed.

I mumbled your name in my slumber, replaced

my constant complaints of too much cold.