a flash of silver scissors
hair floating, fading
settling on the tiles

breath clipped with laughter
snow engraved with footprints
pink cheeks, pink hands
the warm smell of smoked wood

faint talking
steeped mugs of tea,
perfect circle mirrors imprinted on the table
hands interlocked
holding on

the season of second chances

im walking home and the air is thick and heavy and it's four in the afternoon. i have done this a thousand times before, but at the same time i have never done this before. The cars silently roar by on the highway, flashes of colour that disappear as quickly as they arrive.