Winter leaves a trace of frostbitten memories.
Don't speak to me of spring,
without closure.
A winter romance is not a summer fling.
When I ask her for warmth
she hands me a dying man
who won't make it through the season.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
Winter leaves a trace of frostbitten memories.
Don't speak to me of spring,
without closure.
A winter romance is not a summer fling.
When I ask her for warmth
she hands me a dying man
who won't make it through the season.
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