Wednesday, February 1, 2017

February


Even in the coldest part of February, you mourn a time. Was it when you could drag your sleeve through the wine and fumble for the rolling glass?

When it broke, it looked like ice upon the rocks.

Or when the singers weren't all married yet? When being by yourself was lonely?

If was that time. The sea has risen and the coastline less intricate.
I regret I never set foot upon the shore.

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