The Cold Window

The window is cold

My forehead rests upon it numerous times a day, yet it is always cold

It refuses to soak up the heat from my skin, as if it is a defective sponge of sorts

And I feel as if the cold window represents me on most days

The days I feel the world caving in on me, pushing at my sanity and crushing me slowly

With coldness

And the chill is one that sends shivers running up and down the spine,

But also doesn’t

And though the days pass from fall, where the chill through the window is warm and cold at the same time, to winter, where the cold is just cold and damp and teeth-chattering, to spring, where the chill is slight and almost unfelt, to summer, where the chill is all but nonexistent,

The window is always cold

And then I know for sure that the window is a stark representation of me, because through all seasons, warm or not, I am always a cold, unfeeling, spine-shivering being who feels not with the heart, as I once was able to

And I still like to rest my forehead upon the window, just to feel close to something; to anything

Just to feel that something, even just an inanimate object, can understand how I feel

Because it is not just me that is always cold

It is also the window in which I communicate and connect with through the slight touch of skin that protects my brow

And I find comfort in the window that is always so cold