I leave the space heater on to fill the emptiness of my room with warmth,
let its breath wrap me up for a moment, here, just like this, with the blankets pulled over my body,
and I remember what it felt like
to feel the comfort of heat from slow, restful exhalations upon the back of my neck,
of an unfettered heart thudding against my back.
I used to turn away from love while it held me in its grasp:
curled into myself to preserve my own
limiting body heat rather than allow myself to truly embrace and share
warmth with another, but
how I've healed–
how I've learned to accept love,
once I saw, tasted, touched, felt what it really was–
learned to close for people who were more spark than warmth, who mistook shivers and tremors from the cold for pleasure wracking my body, whose white-hot burning only cauterized my wounds;
learned to open up,
learned to be vulnerable with people whose souls are crackling bonfire at the beach, rays of sunshine hitting goosepimpled skin, ingredients sizzle-singing as they meet a hot pan.
I've grown;
now surround myself only with energies that glow with warmth,
even when the sun sets and a chill sets over this home, even when it means choosing mine alone.
In loving myself, I've found that I am enough,
and because I am enough,
I am okay alone.
In loving myself, I've found that I am enough,
and because I am enough,
so too can the shower’s billowing steam at the end of a long work day be,
as can the kettle that whistles lovingly for my attention every morning,
the clothes I pull out of the dryer on Sunday afternoons,
the hugs I envelop my loved ones in when they return from their travels,
and the blanket and space heater that fill the emptiness of my room with warmth.