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It is not you; it is
me.

Too many years of falling leaves and approaching fall have rendered me a cripple; I can no longer wait for answers, for the feelings of others to appease me or to ease my quivering uncertainties. My skin vibrates, there is an ache in my gut caused by your silence, your absence, that I can tolerate no longer. A better woman would ride out the storm, would stand her ground and calmly await your arrival at her port, but I cannot. My soul aches with your imagined departure from my bed, and to save the few, fragile shards that remain of my dignity, I will close the door now, lock it firmly and convince myself I am better off imprisoned within my own solitary walls than standing outside a house on fire.

The homeless have such a cold time of it in winter.