I haven't been writing things lately.
I'm so cold, and my fingers seem to have frozen stiff.
I think if I'm not careful they might snap right off.
No seriously. I have the heat turned up so high right now, I should be able to close my eyes and convince myself that I'm sitting in a sub tropical environment. I should be sweaty and damp and overheated and removing articles of clothing.
But even with my eyes closed, I can tell that my hands are purple-grey-blue. And my knuckles white-white. They jut through my papery thin skin like exposed bone.
I've been thinking things instead, and half muttering them under my breath as I stomp through dark streets.
My boots on the pavement mark time. Slam poetry for one.
The rhythm feels so good, much better than simply finding the right words. I prefer to spit words out under pressure, between steamy push outs of air. It doesn't matter so much that they are right, I just can't miss the beat.
They are living words. And when I try to press them to paper, I can't remember a single one.