This slow sizzle of skin under an artificial heat
feels like love. My vice. In the palm of every winter
she warms the bones I’ve packed in ice, in summer
she soothes me into fevered half-dreams, begging
for relief from every sort of slight panic. I’d marry her.
I wrap her, the false sun, around me. I pull her close
like a lover, throw my leg over the curve of her side,
close my red eyes and simmer, wait until the pink 
blossoms up my thigh like kiss marks, the blood
purples, scratch at the growing burn, give myself up
to the tide of sweet sleep in her embrace. This may be
a better way to hurt. It feels too good, the warmth
of every human connection that flickered dead kept
alive by wires. When I wake she’s perfumed the room,
she’s made the air balloon and rise, the billowing heat
licking the ceiling, the low carpet tingling near flame.
I am left rolling in sweat, the imprint of the woven floor
embossed the arch of my spine. I leave her plugged in,
burning up electric calories. I let her suck the energy
from the whole damn house. I tempt myself to stick
my fingers through her bars, or into the socket, or
press my palms against her blistering cheek, pattern
my skin with the texture of hers. Burn. She is the only
thing that makes me feel alive in this cold cruel world.