Future Visit

Oh, warmth, where are you?
My skin itches for your scratch.
My joints scream in bony agony.
My fingers fumble, refusing to bend.
My feet are but blocks of ice, though they be rosy pink.
Not even in my clothing or under my blankets, can I find your friendship.
My hearth, though blazing, blows a chilled breeze.
There are no words to say how much I miss your sweet touch.
In fact, I cannot recall another lover I’ve desired so desperately.
Maybe your disappearance is a foretelling of things soon to be.
Perhaps death warms himself for a short visit?