Degrees of Apology

I reach for the dial before she's home,

turn it down from sixty-six to sixty-four,

apologizing with every turn,

making myself smaller than before.

She's never asked me to be cold,

never said the heat was wrong,

but I've learned to do what I'm told,

learned to suffer and be strong.

Sixty-four degrees feels right—

cold enough to prove I care,

warm enough to not offend her sight,

the right amount of frigid air.

I stand there every single day,

watching my hand turn down the dial,

finding this is the only way

to make my wanting worth my trial.

She comes home to the chill,

and I'm shivering but I'm fine,

I've bent myself to fit her will,

erased the line that's mine.

In the cold I disappear,

just like I planned to do,

apologizing for being here,

for all the things I am to you.