Warmth

Outside, the door shuts. I'm blocked by the freezing air. If I can tunnel through this I can make it to the next best place. The warmest spot is my hands between your thighs. My feet rubbing. Cricketing, you call it. Outside it's large and bright. Seriously too white. The wind chime's going nuts. When it starts going at night, the chimes sound frantic with worry. They twirl and ring faster and faster. Careening, almost. Is that the word? Do sounds careen? Like a circle would sound if a circle was made of a sound. If a circle made sound. Geometric, moving sound. Geometrical? I'm not sure. Anyway, I'm always worried about how to handle the cold, especially when it's windy. My body tenses just thinking about it. I think we admire warm-blooded people more than we should. Being cold is a sign of weakness. That guy - what's his name? - who swims in freezing water? Why is he superior to the guy standing on the edge, not willing to submit to the icy unknown? Fuck that. My cold hands are my best defense. Survival is warmth. I don't get hotflashes and they tell me they're terrible. Like you're on fire. I admit, I envy it a little. I want the feeling of hot sweaty warmth coming from inside me. No more seeking warmth out there. We turn the heat down at night now. We both sleep better. It's true, when it's too hot it's hard to sleep. But before your body regulates and warms to a sleeping body temp, the bedroom feels like an ice rink. I just want to sink into a body of water and let it soothe me into a lulled sense of comfort. Soft, warm wind and water just a bit above body temp. Not too hot sun. Maybe the water could be covered by the shade of green leafy trees with the sun just peeking through. I swear, when I heard a bird singing the other day I cried.