Don't Belong

Cool glass kisses feverish skin. Funny how ice burns hotter than the flame. Ice, yes the mirror reflects not but its subject and truly the subject it portrays. What else should one who lost their place be called? Like the frozen tundra, desolation, despair, numbness creeps upon the body.

The head of sunshine hair hangs low. Crystal chill encroaches upon the mind, slowly the final remnants of warmth, of love encase in diamond. Weary, so weary. What once known, no longer exists.

Pain courses through the skull. Blue eyes clench, pearl white teeth grind, hands grasp the buttercup locks. Tears cascade down rosy cheeks, frozen icicles on the chin. Frosty breaths labor forth.

The right hand falls from the peak. Glass shatters across the attics wooden floor. Sparse furnishings take note of the new addition. Sun refracts a weak rainbow upon the desk it once sat, too light to notice. A wound scrapes down his right arm, yet no blood flows, a crystalline heart. Time stops.

As the summer sun shines bright upon the house, paint peeling from intensity, a last shuddering breath escapes near frozen lips. Time resumes. The world records no memory. The final words of a motionless boy sculpted in ice, lost to the wind.

“You don’t belong here.” Whether spoken to himself, the sun or the cold, no one will ever truly realize. When the warmth of love, the will of life flee the person, the ice creeps in. His heart still belongs to a man who jilts him. What use is a heart without the body for which it beats?

Cold, the lack of warmth. Despair, the lack of love. Death, the lack of life.