Warm creatures are cold


I’m walking half-naked from one room to another, looking for that black, short, consumed underwear shirt I just use at home. My warm skin cuts the air as a burning sword and a bad, cold but still sweet feeling of rain- and autumn-flavored illness completely starts possessing me. It reminds me of when I was at home in bed during school days, warm but looking at the fresh weather and wind outside, cared about by my mother; that time where there were mostly very rich feelings, not very precise thoughts.

I think I’ve got a slight cold and a slighter fever.

That’s curious. Smells and tastes from my past seem to come back, one at a time starting from the most recent ones: her last kisses, the warming tea of the winter with ginger biscuits, honey and lemon in my mother’s kitchen.

Keys go down on a scale and then another one follows; you’re starting to lurk at this this side from the floor patterns while sounds come out.

We’re both claiming energy back from the notes, as if casual, random melodies were our only nourishment. Aren’t they? I’m smiling because I’ve been waiting for you to join and I can feel your dark body getting back together, right behind me, from shoulder to shoulder.

Your wings are opening and your cat’s eyes moving around, looking for my hearth. You must fence the room and feel cold like me while you do, ‘cause your skin burns and I’d swear I could just see the air going round you now: warm creatures must be cold.

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