Wednesday, December 7, 2011


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.

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