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Heat
It was the heat.
That is the only conclusion I've come to.
It was far from
exclusively physical, in fact
it was primarily an inner-warmth.
I found myself persistently pressing
myself against his chest,
as if curling into him
would have an incubator-like effect.
I could be covered in a film of sweat
but beneath my skin I was frozen.
Not in the emotionless, stoic way
but in the starved for touch, anyone's touch way.
I wondered if everyone else
stayed as warm as him
all the time
or if it was just my own perception
which had a habit of being warped anyhow.
I was content with not knowing.
I didn't need to know everything,
or anything for that matter.
I filled my own gaps with
the consuming, wolfish ache
for that same warmth,
the only thing that could thaw my skin
and whatever lies beneath.
I must have only been able to endure
that frenzy for so long,
because now I discard the notion altogether;
hot or cold, it can't be helped.
