My feet are getting cold again.

Something I came up with a few years back. On the edge of deep, past the line of sane.

You know, my feet are getting cold again. My hands as well. Even 76 degrees, a blanket, and socks that I hate so much cannot take away this little shiver I get day after day, with breaks for music and coffee. I hate tea, remember? Especially black. Strong black tea that you drink with two spoons of sugar every single morning, while I’m writing you a letter. I’m telling you about how much I miss you and how badly I never wish to see you again. About how much I love you and how powerful my hate for you is.

It’s 72 degrees outside of your window, but even the fireplace can’t make your hands any warmer. Are you getting my letters? Because every day I set them on fire, hoping that they are slowly burning a hole inside of you. Tiny at first, like from a cigarette on the back seat of a cab, and then larger and larger… I hope that the flames of every letter burn you from the inside until there is nothing left. Only the very strong scent of vanilla coming from my candle.

Just perhaps… You’re sending me letters too. Because every day I’m burning on the inside. Slowly fading away with every spark in the fireplace that is failing to keep you warm.

My feet are getting cold again. My hands as well. But I promise, I will pretend I don’t notice.

Author's Note

Feel free to criticize.