When I Think of Rainbows

I hand her my hand, my throbbing little heart, my soul and my life, I look at her as a beggar would—gimme love, gimme touch, gimme warmth, gimme purpose—and I pluck out my eyeballs, I sip my coffee and I look (just look without any touching) at the crows outside her window. And my feet are cold, but I know she will not warm them, so I smile, and my time is slow. It ceases and I reach out to break the toes off my feet. (It is winter). Mr Snowman. Snowflakes. And I think evil thoughts like sunlight and I want to kill him. My feet hurt. My body hurts. I look away from the window.