it's cold at night here.
the doors stayed closed at night. 
i can press my hand against the glass when i wake.
it burns me, makes me back away.
i don't like the cold. i wrap myself in blankets while i read.
i don't want to get cold while my heart is warm.
summer days have gone away. they won't come back another day.
all i have is these books and the cold. 

the books keep me warm. they're here for me.
they speak to me, even if it just in my head.
they have different voices.
keats. shelley. byron.
herbert. cummings. whitman.
wordsworth.
they know me, even if they're dead.
even when i'm dead, they'll know me.
and i'll know them. they live in my brain.
they're here with me. so is the cold.
but the cold can stay. if only for a little while.