My comfort.

My comfort rises from a waxy wick,
echoes off someone else’s guitar.

Warm water fingers my bare back
with such gentle tenderness
that I can almost feel an old lover’s touch.
My lips are nothing
but two dead red lines etched into my face
offering neither words nor kisses.
These legs walk towards no one,
arms open to nothing.

Winter winter bury me
give me wings of purity
through your white air lift me high
flown by gentle winter sighs