COLD by Euan McMeeken

I feel cold.  It’s not that I am cold. Lying on the bed, the blood is pumping through my veins, warming my skin to the point where I’m uncomfortable and constantly readjust.  My body, desperately seeking the cool relief of unruffled cotton.  My hands are clammy and stick to the pages of the book I hold, as Tom Waits stares at me through black and white eyes and makes me feel ever more uncomfortable.  Like he’s the jugde and jury and I am the condemned.  The gun with it’s romantice detailed design, on the front of the book lying by the bedside table sends a shiver down this dead mans spine.  The house is bright, lit by the suns last breath that comes streaming through the skylight windows and fills the room with a warm glow.  Like spring is just around the corner.  I think of home.  The comforts, the laughter, the innocence and the opportunity to bask in the welcoming and care that accompany such visits.  Was it only an hour or so ago?  It feels like a lifetime.  I think of the music that filled my world, consumed my soul earlier and wish I was back in that room.  Fingers pressed against ivory.  Voice trembling with every breath as if at any moment it will give way and come crashing down like the world around me.  As if echoing the words that I sing.  The smell of dinner comes flooding through the house and wakes me from this trance.  It smells delicious, like life should smell.  The final ember of the sun burns out and I move from the bed.  A drop of sweat runs down the back of my leg and althought everything is bright and warm.  I still feel cold.