Freezing

My childhood is puff of cigarette smoke.

It is there and I can see it.

But I can't touch it and I know that 

it'd feel nice in the short

but then 

would only hurt 

If I were to breath it.

My hands still reach and grasp though

but never, ever hold.

At least not for long

I am young, so young,

but very, very old.

And I can't belong.

Out and in,

In and out.

Eyes closed and shut and sealed.

Letting go and moving on, 

has never ever burned 

or felt so close and real.

And this ache is prevalent, but mild,

pulling at my heart, nagging and teasing.

(As Melchior said)

"It's cold in these bones of a man and a child,"

And I am cold.

I am freezing.