"Pockets Full of Cold (Empty) Hands," by Mary Chittle

When I said my hands were cold,

I wasn’t asking for your gloves.

I was hoping you would hold them,

wrap them in your love,

but you didn’t understand.

Did you even try?

Did I want you to?

You never knew my coffee order

(I get hot chocolate, I don’t like coffee).

You didn’t learn my birthday

(October 14, it’s in your phone).

You can’t remember my sizes

(medium shirt, 10 pants).

You buy me gift cards instead

(I don’t shop at Kohl’s).

So when we walked through the snow,

your eyes glued to your phone as I led the way,

I said my hands were cold, and

you figured that covering them up,

wrapping them in wool, would fix

the problem, fix us,

make me warm again.

If anything, it made me colder than before.

So much of us was this way,

you brushing aside our problems, or

covering them with a temporary solution.

Yet I didn’t protest, didn’t say a thing.

I let you break us apart, even beginning

to cover things before you got the chance.

I learned to turn a blinded eye,

bought myself a coat with pockets

(I had a gift card lying around).

But somehow, my hands are still cold.

Can I borrow your gloves?