I cannot see anything through the frosted glass,
So I creep up to the window, more silent than the night-time wind,
And open the heavy frame.
Gray paint chips flake onto my chapped fingertips.
I manage to open it just enough to feel the BLOW.
The bitter, frozen air seeping through the barely open window
Instantly attacks me. Chokes me.
I shut it as quickly as I can
And it finally removes its grip around my neck.
But left behind are the marks of its fingertips.
I am upright for a moment more before I collapse.
The weight of my burdens baring down on me,
I fall to my knees.
But even they are too weak,
Too raw from the daily collapsing and crawling
In search for a better life.
So I balance myself on my fingertips.
I hear my baby brother
Stirring in his bed.
The fingertips of the wind are tapping at his window now,
Pleading for another opportunity to enter.
But no. I am too close. I am too fast.
I get to my brother before the bitter call of the night.
I sit beside him
With my fingertips.