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cold hands

cold hands
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"you are every single spot on my all-time top five," he heard echoing subsequently through the fragments of leaves leftover on the trees, dangling lifeless and pleading to be released and onto the floors of the world below them, to be swallowed up in snow and buried away, forgotten for long months until spring hits and they have decomposed quietly. the dinner table was set for one, and he had lost his appetite. winter: the city lights are blurred by falling white icy smiles, their teeth chattering consistently, creating a rhythm which was hurried and unrefined. his hair is dark and crisp in contrast to the pale of the snow. around him, the streets are crowded with a fog of hurried people, talking in misinterpreted dance. he is fastening up the buttons on his coat, he is dreaming of a holiday which isn't spent alone, he is missing others who do not miss him, he is feeling sorry for himself. he is track one on repeat. the sidewalk is unevenly paved and hardly seen beneath the gathered snow, now a darkened slush that is making a heavy sound beneath his feet. his hands are in his pockets to keep warm for he is not carrying bags filled with presents, and his eyes are glued to the sidewalk. his hands tighten. the cars passing by leave only an echo that finds its way across the streets, filling in the gaps of laughter. and he wonders why there is an assumption that he is well put-together, why there is an assumption that things are okay. when infact he is unfinished, when infact he is falling apart. bodies around him are in a motionless rush. in their voices he hears a nervous train that cannot stop. an old woman acknowledges him and he can sense the writer's block in his returning smile. he is trying to deny that he is lonely. he is trying to forgive everything he's done, and they've done in return. he is trying not to think the way a book thinks. he is trying not to let his thoughts mislead him. he is failing miserably.
Poetry
 
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