It is not a lack of gloves making me cold

Where our hands once clasped
Our hopes

Chilblains fester.
Shooting, slice of pain
Brought by wind,
Reminds me

What I gave away.
No children bore
From bedroom.
You whore.
You ran.
Cigarette burns

Your spine.
My name, carved,

None see.

I lament the day
I left my gloves on the bus.