the roads closer to home are still slick with the tightly packed snow protected by shadows but, sometimes, that soft crunch, despite the danger, is still preferred to the gritty grind of salt on ice
he washed until the water ran cold. he scrubbed until the sponge was smooth as satin. the unscathed stack of ***** dishes just relax backed in the sink laughing at him.
I could be better But I could be dead There’s a lot of things I wish I never said I could be happier But I could be mad There’s things I never said that I wish I had
turning bread into toast peanut butter and jam the part I miss the most veraciously out of hand I’ve been tying to slow it down I’ve been counting through my breaths distance found it difficult to dwarf the pain that’s left