Tables littered with mugs and cups and saucers, kettles on
the stove whistling a symphony of steam. Nothing more than a powdered sugar
dusting on yellow grass, I think we might be holding off the world’s cold all
by our selves. Winking lights in the window and you with your stories of tragic
loves and how the winter came about. I’ve never had a blanket like you to curl
up under and I can only wish that you won’t unravel.
