passionately

this is what I think when I wait in a metro on the coldest day of the year: two years ago your mother found me asleep in the snow with blue lips and purple hands. when she grabbed my hands to lift me to my feet, the air felt thick and the noises around me sounded slow and droopy. sometimes dead things look more alive than I do, like the leaves that blow in the wind. your mum had such a firm grip on my wrists and she was shaking my whole body to make me move. maybe her forced movements made me look alive, even if I was still asleep, even if I was no longer animate. - this is what I thought when I stared at the steam from the tea kettle: on