It’s cold outside.

Colder than I’m used to.

She’s probably used to it.

I just traveled here.

She’s lived here for

far too long but is

still just another

window along the street.

The shivering stopped

half an hour ago

but now it’s fiercely hot

beneath the multiple layers

of clothing that is asleep

on my skin.

My tea is cold.

Not cold like it is outside.

Cold like it has realized its purpose

in this world.

Cold like

it is tired of fighting itself

in the small, insignificant cup.

Cold like it was

just warm ten minutes ago.

Cold like its last fight

was just let go.

Not cold like the snow

falling behind the window.

The window that is

radiating red.

Cold like it is no longer

distractingly hot but

still too cold to drink.

I’m no longer cold.

She is, though. She must be,

wearing nothing but her

underwear. Waiting for

someone, anyone, to

knock on her window

and ask for a price.

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