That was the very last hug. The leaves crunch in laughter as I walk home. The beautiful autumn turns to a cold winter. I forget how to write, and there is no creative backup. Dreams escape me. I run from them, too; it’s a mutual disrespect. Black nights lead to black days, and black days lead to black evenings. A charcoal-scorched dinner is all my weary eyes can see. At night, I see myself in the dated stipple ceiling of my room. The wavy textures of the walls snicker at me, and I scoff back. It is cold. I accept the loveless hug from the walls and lie in a restless slumber. Awoken to a great jungle on my head, a sigh escapes me. The bathroom mirror whispered to me, with full abrasiveness, that I should fix myself up. My unkemptness-crafted pajamas disagree, but the thought is there. The winter calls me to leave the cold of my room to the colder outsides, and when the holidays hit, I am fed up. I listen to the winter. I make do with the jungle on my head, and I walk off that fat and the off baggage. Who was it that gave me that last hug? I don’t see them anymore. I see myself in the mirror, and I see a well-kept jungle mess, and I like it. The walls are warmer, and I laugh right back at them. I gave the last warm hug to myself.
By Jared Burkhardt