It's not cold at all. It's just hot showers in her underwear. As she teases the sun. With her long fingers. Frail with choices. Made for her. By bigger men.
It's not salvation. This night. Or any other. Blind infants spoiling in their mothers' tits. The red and the green teardrops of electricity. Stabbing the dark. In petulant dreams. Of fools and children unable to sleep.
There is no war in this heart. No soldiers in this skin. Just beggars and opportunists. Selling their tinsel to naked trees.
I've found him. So many times. But He was always a disappointment.
I've been saved by better men.
and destroyed by the same.