Heat Wave

It's been one of those gloomy days, despite the fact the sun is shining high in the Indiana sky and the air's a toasty 95 degrees. My skin may be glistening with orbs of sticky sweat, but my heart is lined with snowflakes, trickling drops of icy water down into my stomach. The urge to cry tugs at my tongue, and sends a frost across my gaze.

My fingers latch onto the damp, white basket filled to the top with paint-stained clothes. My feet drift towards the empty loveseat, floating over the caramel carpet. I fall onto the cushions. Staring blankly at the pile of red and grey cotton t-shirts, the streaks of glossy black mixed with denim legs reminds me of the couple we once were.

Before the graveyard stole time we spent together wrapped in a sea of dark blue blankets, tangled like the laundry that I'm now aimlessly folding. Before afternoon scuffles were routine due to precious daylight slept away and random bills stacked inches high. Before you left the sheets unmaid, forgot to feed the dogs, and threw your socks beside the bed, leaving me to catch the slack.

It's been one of those chilly nights, although my hair's damp to touch and the temp's at 82. My skin may be cloaked with goosebumps, but my heart is scorched in flame.