2002-01-20 - 1:11 AM
The Itch I Miss
The snow falls outside. Inside, in the warmth, the stubble on my face grows long. The itch on my arm is testing my self-control, "Don't scratch it, Austin. Don't re-open the wound." I'm getting goosebumps.
I'm right by the window - there's only a millimeter between the winter outside, and the warmer inside. I rub my legs with my hands, faster and faster to make the heat. All we need is heat, right?
I've stopped rubbing my legs. I could feel just how long my stubble has gotten, without even touching it. I am now scratching away at the wound; I've lost my self-control.
The snow hasn't fallen in a year. It's been too long. Sometimes I think that there's a heat that roams around, passing through all sorts of people - a warmth in a cheek when you kiss it. That heat has left; the snow has arrived.
I love the sky during a snowfall. I sometimes hate what they play on the radio when it does. I love the bland orange in the sky, that creeping lavendar that comes along too. I used to hate the sound of the snowplows when they roared passed the house; I've since found comfort in the hum.
That millimeter's no good, I've started to rub my legs again. The stubble on my face has become somewhat unbearable - I haven't even touched it. The snow falls; my curtains block the orange, that I said I loved so much. The snowplows roar past. There's that hum again. And that heat - that heat. I'm wishing for that heat to roam, and roam right through me. I'm dreaming of that warmth. I'm missing that warmth in a cheek when I kiss it.
Oh, boy. I've re-opened the wound.
