shiver

this is important: i will write down the feeling.
i am alone and cold in the corner of my house
reading lines written by strangers. how did it feel
back then for that other self so far away to have
warm arms when i wanted them, tea and toast,
nine to five, books and blankets and a fire in the
grate? i wonder. unable to remember, i examine
the blank wall. whose memory was that,
and will it pass? barring that,
when will it settle down,
stop pacing?

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