the streets are filled with lies
of "how are you?" "oh, i'm fine!"s
strangers smile away all of
the battles that they hide
nobody's fine
nobody's great
it's not polite to articulate
the struggles that you're going through
but that's fine
how are you?

- p. winter

although the butterfly stage is
wonderful in every way,
where hearts race and hands shake
with every second of eye contact,
there is also a comforting beauty
in the kind of love that is
just existing together
in silence
drawing lazy circles on
each other's backs.
no need for racing hearts
and sweaty palms.
i love to love you
in the calm
and the quiet
of your company.

- p. winter

Would I e'er compare thee to an autumn's eve
With forests of fiery hues?
Or to a winter's birth
As shards of angels' wings so slowly fall?
Or to a spring's breath
That blossoms all that lives and breathes?
Or to a summer's sun-kissed daydream
Dreamt in fields of grasses tall?
It appears thou art so full of life
There beeth not a reason,
To compare thy being or thy love
To any living season.
Autumn rests in thine auburn hair,
Winter chills thy cheeks so fair,
Spring awakens in thy laughter,
And summer sunlight with thine eyes doth share.
I would not compare thee to any day
Or any time of year,
For all my days are lovely
An I have my love near.

- p. winter

The name itself is but euphony.
The woman is
No different.
With ringlets wild,
Faith of child,
Fingers delicate,
Eyes wise,
Her blushēd cheeks
Are watercoloured
Sunrise waking
Winter skies.
There is music in her laughter.
A new note struck
With every opening of her
Pillowed lips.
In times of sorrow,
Speak her name.
Find healing in loving
Julia.

- p. winter

You can hurt someone while loving them.
Just like you can crinkle sheets by hugging them.
You can apologize, yet never change.
Like washing sheets to crinkle them again.

- p. winter

I know I'm slowly killing it,
But I will display it's drowning corpse, along with those of its brethren, as a sign of my appreciation of it's beauty,
And feel robbed when it dares to wither.
A selfish murderer am I
To **** something so beautiful and full of life
And present it's remains as a present
To my beloved.
I must be insane to do such a thing.
I must be insane
To pick flowers.

- p. winter