There’s that fucking word again. Cold.

It doesn’t bother me to know that I am. It doesn’t bother me to hear the word from anyone’s lips - but hers. Cold. How can she think me cold? I burn when she is near. Even her voice, her scent consumes me - pushes me to devour her whole. I am cold? Not when she is near. My palms itch to dig into her thighs as I fuck her. My mouth yearns to taste my name cried out upon her lips. My fingers ache to wrap themselves in the raven silk of her hair. I crave the taste of her slick folds across the flat of my tongue. I want to bring her to the edge and shove her over. Carve my nails into her skin.

Neruda, I understand.

It is in words that I am cold. Tone. And when a look can’t communicate my love - I am left with words. It is in distance that we struggle. And words can’t bridge the gap. She can’t guess my emotions - and I read her every inflection like a 2,000 page book. Cursed with education - I take shelter in my mind; and how my mind works to unravel those threads that tie me to her.

Cold.

Some people are meant to be alone.