Cold as Russia

In that vast open heart of his a cold has settled in. The valves narrow. Constrict. Writhe in loneliness. He walks around telling us that he has no one to talk to. Even as he talks to us. No one. It is that no one we are all missing. She has become the negative space in his presence. He cannot see her. If he did, he would sneak away to his room, shut the door and have the conversation of his life.   He would build a secret shrine to her. Light a candle. Reflect. Inhale her absence. She is watching over him. But he does not see her. Does not feel her. He only feels the onset of his pain. He wears his mourner's button.  A black stain. It plunges him into darkness. He cannot dream of love.