I wanted you to be someone I could rest my bones with,
some warm entity that would hide me from a colder world.
I could burrow into your sweater.
I could pretend I am someone else.
My skin is dry and my lips crack.
But your hot touch does not reach my veins and
your words do not scare away my own thoughts.
Does this mean you are not mine?
Or must I become my own?
I’m not home in my own skin;
my searchlight landed on you.
Yet here I lay beside your skin,
feet still cold and blood still blue.