Hot Day in January, Cold One in Hell

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We’re way past that,
the mushy mess of emotion
that roils and boils
the essence of him and her,
her and her, him and…
It seems the passion’s now
the equivalent of a dead fire,
blackened and cold,
where glowing red heat
once scorched virtual fingers,
slapping them away, leaving scars
reminding me it’s okay to look
but don’t touch, even if only
with gentle words.
Those old lines burn today
whenever I touch them, and wonder
if you ever do too, whoever
you’ve become. Because now I know
no longer does it matter
what circumstances we were born in.

A warmup 100-word poem for the day, based on one of my favorite exercises. I took the fifth line of the Avett Brothers’ song January Wedding to begin the poem and the fifth from last to end it. The creamy filling between is all my imaginings and subconscious insight. There’s no need to protect the innocent. None of us were.

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