Sweat clams up my facial pores, drowning my being in a deluge of fast-playing age,
like a sweaty-sibling’s palm, it taunts me, blocks my immediate vision and blurs out
the splayed-out fingers on its periphery.
Its a winter midnight but, even so, I fling off my summer-togged duvet, and sit up –
abruptly; willing my flailing arms, and tissue-skinned hands, to take aim in the general
direction of a window clasp.
I long for exposure – to rinse off the encroaching years with the coldness of a spongy-
slush-filled moon. But, unwise as it might be to waste even this moment, I pause … to
consider: Is the moon just what’s left of a hot-burning star, with its fingers lopped off?
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019
Inspiration stolen from line 7: ‘I’m sweating, yet it’s cold’, in the poem ‘A Cell’, by Johnny (firstname.lastname@example.org).
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com (creative commons licensed).