Improv. 3 (Week 7)

Fumbling for the keys to my car. 
Breathe tinged with the smell of  
wrung clouds. Eyes shifting over

Doubled sights, All i could hear
was the shrieks about clawing 
insides out. You say its cold,

I say you've always been warm. 
The crevasse of your skin like a
summer night. Tight-lipped, I rose

from the library of bricks, my own
proclaimed savior and searched for
my key ring. Stunted back into the room.

You say "You just didn’t know if you would
share your warmth." I burp my nothings.