It's so cold out.
The wind blows like a kiss from the North.
All of the leaves are already dead now, along with my only hope for joy.
The kids rush along the sidewalks, bundled up in coats and what not.
Skin becomes dry and achy;
a relation forms between the layers of derma and a dehydrated human in the Sahara.
Both reach for something that's not there.
Survival is only attainable with certain steps and choices.
One mistake, and you're sure to end up lost.
Rain begins to fall more frequently now, and I can't help but fall in sync with every drop as I feel the ones beneath my cheeks.
It's Winter, and I've given up.

(j.a.r.)