Is it my substantiality
That you begrudge?
Do you travel from the edges of the Earth
To knock into all three of my dismentions
Because you are a formless thing, void?
Because, let me tell you,
It’s not as solid a proposition as it appears.
We are slaves to our flesh,
Slaves to our location
Slaves to our temporality, temporary things.
Perhaps it is our warmth.
You steal it away,
With your violating fingerless
Fingers, through the stitching through the flimsy layers
Can’t you see
That it does you know good?
Don’t you know
That even if you take it from me
You will still be coldempty