cold boredom, and art can be boring sometimes

wearing you like the
comforting arms of
retreat
step indoors
smuggle yourself into
the blue night
the black darkness
the pink empty
of the space between
one fold of fabric
and another

wrap up within the layers
of little upon little upon little
snowflakes
eyelashes
cold cuts onto the tongue
your second finger

touch glass and ice
and forget the difference

open up alone
accept inevitable blending into silence
for white upon white upon white
is as warm as warmth you will ever know

cover blankets with more blankets
because you can, lucky.

let arms be the destination
of final retreat
indoors
alone
together

the right and the left
folded