a portrait.

you may not be aware, but it is winter here.
the cave of a home blocked in, the hinges rust shut, the chrome of our zippers clenched closed;
you cannot enter no matter how hard your heart beats its bony knuckle on the wood.

closed for the season
like the ferris wheels and hot dog stands residing on piers,
we are reminders of times so good,
so gone,
there is no breathing
no pulsing
no circulating here,
only stagnancy.

a picture frozen in time that you desperately hold close
as if you could diffuse that rose in our cheeks, that glint in our eyes into the present.
but the color has faded as simple as plain is to see,
marked in correction fluid by the gaunt hollowness of cheeks and doughy eyes stabbed at the mere thought of truth.

it is the wrong season, the wrong time.
how many times must i mutter? how many times must i curse?
how many cold stares must i project through the hole in the door?
to make you see that
you may not come in,
you are unwelcome.

go home, go home, go home.
turn the keys in their sockets
and enjoy the comfort of double yellow lines
while i lock up for the night
and let a different hue sing me to sleep.
rush, drain, rush, drain, gush, clot, stop.
leave us to our work
as we make this heart pulse fierce.

and silence.
sweet, sweet, silence
falls upon a frozen place
as we strip our loose skin
and finally jump ship
dozing off to the warmth of the waves and the currents
of a relentless undertow.