My hands are cold

and my heart is gold.

I am not sure how the right way should feel like. Pretty unsure if I'm on it now. Everything I touch turns into a pile of uncertainty, sometimes freezes, often makes me doubt. Not seeing the living and only hearing the sound of broken phone line. My hands are cold, wishing the spring cherry blossoms would melt them into warm rivers. Begging them to wake up with the changing of seasons. My heart is gold. Like the sunsets now -- it's there, it's existing, gracefully existing but you know it's gone in a minute. Slowly disappearing. Going. Seeing its reasons to be there but still leaving us every time.

I am not sure why shouldn't I.