

SnowThe foot prints in my snow, are sometimes not my own And I always have to wonder if it’s her Ahead of me, trudging through three feet of snow Armed with nothing but thick clothes and hot cocoaSnow
Her upper lip, stiff, possibly bitten by frost Her sensible shows, doing what they do, on layers of permafrost Her lips, chapped, cracked, frequently attacked by icy winds in this far stretched tundra
And me, far behind her, silently begging for just one embrace, for just one chance to kiss her cold face, for one chance to hold the world in my hands and erase, everything, but her.
I ca
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Owner of The-Wings-Club
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Simplicity
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Simplicity
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