You Didn't Write, You Didn't Call.

I find myself drifting to it at the oddest of times:
When I'm sitting, coaxing the cold from my chest.
The cold of having eaten too much of the night
The cold which sates the appetite for sleep
but leaves you hungry for a thicker oblivion.
I can knead my cold skin with these eager fingers,
hoping friction can return some sense of feeling,
But all my efforts bring me are familiar palpitations
and colder fingers.