Come warm yourself at my red-hot fire, and even, yes, cook the jealous food that needs sustain you, because I have enough heat, enough enthusiasm, enough passion, enough love to spread it around like butter, even when it drips down and stains my feet.
The "I" of me is buried and still, burning with the fever of uncertainty, burning for spring, missing the writing that is my lifework, but the outer me pulls up the roots of a dead winter and tosses them over the fence of a fools day coming, explores what was written during cold months, plows through office chores with a dullness that only a plunge in a too-cool-yet pool of water will wash away.
And I think today of the person who stalked me a few months ago* and compiled what I had written into a document meant to hurt and divide but instead pulled true threads of a togetherness tighter.
And I think today of an e-mail someone bcc'ed me on just so he wouldn't be alone in his quest for love, bcc'ed me on a letter written in the darkness to somone who has already rejected him, firmly and with dignity, and I wonder if his poured out feelings are disrespectful, and yet, they leave little slices on my heart.
And I read an e-mail from someone I hurt who very skillfully shoved my most valued treasure back at me with nonchalance and I think of the ways humans wound each other.
And I say again, come warm yourself, even when I am only coals.
*yes, here on 6S someone stalked me and cut and pasted my words into a document, and e-mailed it. Her name is Janet, and I would like to meet her someday.