Brittle branches,
brush across my frozen arms.
I'm facing absolution,
in this small winter town.

And I look up at the stars,
covered by the amber clouds.
Nostalgia crawls over my skin.
I can see my breath.

My hand reaches,
for something to absorb it's warmth.
But there hasn't been anyone there,
for a pregnant pause of time.

I wish that you could be absolute,
in your resolution to be different.