Winter is not as Cold as your Heart

The world I gaze upon from my window is cold, but pristine and beautiful from the new fallen snow that blankets it in pure white. I sit inside, next to you, mesmerized by the glowing fire, wanting to feel your warmth. But your heart is cold, mirroring the temperature outside but not the beauty of it. I want to reach out to you, to touch you, but your indifference is a barrier I have yet to penetrate.


I do not understand the distance between the words you speak and your actions. They do not convey the same message. Each morning, I sweep down the stairway, hope high in my heart, that you will look upon me and smile and say, “Good morning” for you are happy to see me. Each morning, I encounter not the happy greeting, not even a casual glance in my direction, only you sitting with your work, entranced in it.


I am like a ghost, no, not a ghost, as then I would not feel the pain of it. And I do. I do feel the pain and the emptiness and the longing. For, I still love you. Even more, perhaps, than when we were young. I am as a pet or an accessory to be used for its purpose and then put away until the need again arises for it. I cannot understand why I am not worthy of your love. The sentence, written boldly in ink on parchment stares up at me, mocking me. Your words say you love me; your actions betray you. That sentence taunts me anew.


I have reinvented myself time and again in hopes that one of my reincarnations will rekindle the fire in your heart that used to burn for me. The attempts have been in vain and I have only lost myself in the process. The log in the fireplace has burned to but embers and the chill beyond the window seeps inside. I feel it find my heart, encircling it with icy fingers and I resolve to feel no further pain. My heart has turned as cold as yours.