Making This Bed For You

My cheeks are red from the cold

they yearn for something warm; like a hand to hold

My hands,

they are so purple,

lifeless,

like my worn-out winter boots;

I still keep because they’re actually yours.

Mascara smeared face,

These years without you;

Are nothing like a speed or race.

And I carry their weight onto my weak shoulders.
And still,

I’m making this bed for you

 there’s nothing I can do;

 I’m hopeless

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