I am thinking about what is to stunted at the root. A growth cut back. What it is to move so close to the warmth but still find oneself trapped outside, breath frosting doily-sized spheres on the chilled windowpane. Just enough heat within to make the wall that separates us opaque.
The irony is not lost on me that I am thinking about the Little Match Girl on a 100+ degree night.
500+ words elsewhere