Frozen in Time

A frosted window stands between him
and the snow covered world. Drops of
water fall from hanging ice sickles, and
where sharp points bend light into
silhouettes across his face.

The air vented through his home
warms his skin, but not his heart.
He longs for the feel of her skin, now
just a memory while time is frozen.

Seconds no longer seem to exist,
leaving him suspended perpetually
in string, a mannequin controlled
by time's not so gentle touch.

It's cold seeps into his chest,
a forever where the bent light from
sun's attempt to warm cannot reach.

A world where the clock's hand ceases
to move, in a torture that has no end.
Waiting becomes a solace in which even
the darkest night holds no comfort of sleep.

To be frozen in time, like ice floating on an
Atlantic wave, he waits. Still smiling against
the anguish of not knowing, trusting memory's
current to take him home.