Cold fronts swarm around the corpses of cities.
Hollow bones of buildings protecting fleshy marrow.
Humanity is the marrow.
Our bones aren’t good insulators.
The fault is purely our own.
Build the bones better, they need to be bettered.
I complain about my hands on an hourly basis.
The opportunity that a cold front presents is for one to increase the output of hourly complaints tenfold.
Tenuously folding my fingers back, they click.
*Click* *Click* *Crack*
The last one was sore.
I always go too far, until one of them is sore.
Circulation is my problem.
Are my hands too far away from my heart?
Literal questions beckon their figurative counterparts forward by way of their solitary existences.
Look at the negative spaces.
Find the reflection there.