I’m pressing my hand to the clean glass window.
Watching the fog around my
Smeared fingerprint recoil into itself.
Dissipating, Disintegrating
As if it was never there at all.
I’m resting my bones on the window
Taunting the outside, mocking the snow
Tapping through a layer of skin
Suffering the shocking cold deep within.
I’ve been digging my thumbs into the
hot hallows of my cheeks
Learning of condensation as steam seeps
From my pores.
I’m pressing my fingers to my face
The space between my hands, replaced
By my nose
Ironing away the frigid feeling of
The window.
I’m pressing harder into my head.
I’m pressing harder
into my head.
Peeking through the gap in my palms
Just enough to see my fingerprints embalmed.
Smudged on the window.
Holding onto the glass
like they’ll never let go.