Poetry: Absence


I stood under the warm water until my blue fingers turned pink.

Blood ran hot under my skin again.

I still felt the cold in my bones.

I tried to shake it off.

It’s not real.

Just the absence of heat.

Just a void.

Like darkness is the absence of light.

Like death is the absence of life.

Maybe hell was just an absence of something.

A void waiting to be filled.

About Maison Moonchild

A Canadian gal that firmly believes words can change the world. An avid reader, writer and Halloween enthusiast. She has a special interest in communications and writes for pleasure and profession. She moonlights as a metaphysical maven with a knack for creating magical crystal jewelry and holiday accessories.
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