As I sit in this brittle basket,
Breathing in the last breath of heat
From a boiling summer's day,
I bring it to my heart,
And send it to myself;
The future me,
Sitting on that distant horizon,
Of pale blues and pinks,

From the tawny tracks of dust and dirt,
Dried by blaring sunlight,
Infertile and driven,
To the lush green of the next winter;
To when the wind whips through my hair
And challenges my footing in the blizzard.
Maybe the warmth of these days
Can set me free then,
Because although it's warm now,
I feel so very cold.

And so I send this warmth to you,
Future me, thinner me,
Smarter me, funnier me;
The me that I want to be;
The me that she wants me to be,
So that maybe it can warm you in the blistering cold,
Like it fails to do to me now,
Despite the thick air
And red glare from my skin,
Because although it's hot,
The ground is bare;
Brown; sucked of its life.
And you are a future me;
A future in winter,
Where the trees are full and the bulbs blossom,
Where the fruits and nectars hang rip and heavy,

I send this warmth to you,
Future me,
So that it can aid you in your quest,
In which I fail now,
To be better;

Because maybe then,
She will love you,
For who you are,
And not,
What you could be,
If you were,

Author's Note: This is my first attempt at poetry, and I know it is not very good, but feedback would be greatly appreciated. I wrote it whilst in quite an emotional state, so perhaps it's not perfect, but tips would be great. Thanks for reading!