I didn't turn the heat on, so my fingers feel like ice
I'm using my laptop as a heating device and the TV is black
comfortless, cold. People turn on their machines
distract themselves from execution with programming, poker
I-can-win-the-lottery mentality

but they don't see the truth of things
that one day, we will die, having signed our lives away
for entertainment, lies. I'm sitting here, naked, legs spread
closing my eyes, worrying and wishing
that you were here, distraction is my ultimate key

to turn the lock, to open the door, to hide
from everyone, I'll slip behind the coats inside the closet
and sink against the floor. People will call my name
from outside; I will pretend not to hear them

I can hide in this cubbyhole forever, but there's always the chance
that the house might burn down. Goddamn it, if I don't climb
past the rubble, I might never make it out
thinking of you, I whisper every night against my pillow

protect him, surround him, bring him home safely
so I can turn up the heat and stop freezing to the sinews
beneath my flesh. Bring him home, so I can stop being forced
to embrace the what-if-he's-lost mentality.

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