“How can they be so cold when your grasp is so warm?”

I glance downwards at you,

Twisting my lips into a smirk,

Contemplating a wheel of ostensible answers...

Sunshine,

These gloves will always remain cold

Despite the warmth I exude and share with you.

Your back,

Fleeced and whipped,

Is against the warmth of my chest,

Heat radiating,

Warming you,

Feeding you,

Your head of marmalade hair,

Burnt to an auburn crisp,

Laying on my shattered shoulder,

Whispering sweet nothings as the accompanying side of a succulent,

Juicy,

Prime cut that nearly seduces off my guard,

And glasses.

Truly,

Vulture,

You feed with a ravenous hunger completely unbecoming of you,

Yet when was the last time you cared of what was truly prim and proper?

Was it when your keen-edged nails ruffled my tamed hair,

The blood you drew urging on your feast as pronged canines dug into the nape of my scarred neck,

Past lovers and present loves turning in half finished graves as your legs tangled with mine,

The pool of blood growing larger,

Feline whiskers slowly cleaned as you entertained the bread of Tepes,

Specially baked for you,

And a glass of wine aged with your taste and mine?

Or was it when I returned the struggle of the Apple of Eden you stole and bit,

A sliver of flesh accompanying it,

Stapled of my own will,

Stress in the line of service driving your baser lusts onto my welcoming me and mine,

With your lithe figure twisting under my warm grasp with honeysuckle gasps and thorny moans?

Last I checked,

Sunshine wasn’t meant to darken my day.

However,

Strings of barbed words and wire are not allowed to flee my lips,

So all I do is keep that smirk reinforced as your fingers mingle with mine and say,
“They keep the cold away and the warmth within, Sunshine.”

Who knew such a short,

Yet correct,

Answer could drive you into a rage,

Clearing a Roanoke of tender feelings,

A sweeping of tables that is meant to be final,

All effort and intent wasted on a improperly taught,

Conniving,

Vulture that still runs rampant under the guise of a sweet Nightingale,

Robbing warmth at will,

Replacing it with a warped cousin,

Intoxicating me and the other one at will.

Now it is all outraged anger at a choice made,

A choice made to uphold the status quote,

Something we bent and nearly broke,

But when the right choice is made and done,

And farewells become goodbyes,

Amid your still spluttering lies,

I’ve yet to truly answer your question;

“Sunshine, my gloves remain cold because of you.”