The refrigerator hums as I sit here trying to remember
The last time I was with her,
Not just near her,
Siting in a darkened theatre or across a crowded cafeteria.
But the last time we talked. And suddenly, it comes to me
It was last night when I had given her the flowers,
And she had bestowed upon me her presence.
She had entered the room like the Sun in winter;
At times warm enough to merit taking off your sweater
And basking in the warm glow found in her smile.
Yet, when she left, just as most fickle winter Suns,
I was left scrambling for a heat source, for any escape from the cold shadows.
Too often I have found myself left out in the cold.
Too often I've scrambled to find fire, only to be burned by it.
Why do I keep going back?
Am I a masochist?
Am I a disturbed individual?
Am I a glutton for punishment?
No, I am none of these.
The plain and simple truth is that I'm in love
And as any person caught in the middle of a frozen wasteland will tell you,
Life is lived for the moments of warmth in the Sunshine
These are the only bits of relief in a winterer's existence
And these moments,
No matter how few and far between,
Are fervently prayed for and lovingly cherished
So, I sit here on a Saturday night,
In the middle of my own winter wasteland
Remembering the warmth of a long since faded Sunbeam,
And trying to block out the refrigerator's hum.
