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Warmth: A poem

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FEBRUARY 18, 2023

It’s cold in this room.

I feel the dry breeze pinch my skin, and my eyes are now varnished.

A rebellious thought grounds my wandering mind. 


My vision looks at what’s in front of me,  

And I inch closer to warmth like the hearth around a fire, 

Or the flesh under the blanket. 


Our room starts to peel off its waste.

The cameras begin to capture her every movement. 

Even when I’m not looking straight at her, I sense the small glance,

Gentle smile, and light adjustment of her feet she throws my way.  


I miss nothing and everything. 


My senses fill, and the bloody organ begins to pound.

The expression on my face is absent, 

But I know she understands my quavering voice. 


My body is shaking like the hurricane behind my sternum, 

Or the water that’s gradually unfreezing. 

I know I shouldn’t, but I drift into the pleasurable darkness

That will satisfy my desire for her. 


The mind, so wrong in selfish thinking, but so right in seeking comfort. 

She’s not mine for the taking, but can’t I just imagine? 

Would she care? 

I think she wants me to want her — it pleases her. 


And I want to please her, so I will. 

Let her special one worry; I don’t care. 

I will think and imagine as much as I wish, 

For when I do, the cold disappears from my veins, 

And I become warm. 


And warmth is all one desires in a winter night’s room. 

So let the sweet pleasure of her presence heat my heart. 

While it does, I can bear the reality of her feelings for me.

Contact Andrés Latorre at 


FEBRUARY 18, 2023