Devoid

My hands are frigid.

A shadow of what they once were.

My fingers are rigid.

The skin more than my bones can bear.

It’s my entire fault.

That you aren’t here to warm them.

To run your finger across my ring.

To kiss the burns that have become king.

The warm water crashes over my paws.

My knuckles are white; fingers are red.

It burns, and I let it.