Smelled, sound, sweet, soft, smeared, sowed,
silver
are the hands inside your cashmere sweater.
When you embrace
own fingertips.
It has been cold for so long,
tears have now frozen in your eyes.
When you watch the television,
curled up in decayed warmth,
do you ever think about the air
outside?
Remember the restless wind, the fierce rain,
the unforgivable sun?
Please.
Leave your little world of Cashmere
and return,
into the Day.
Nov 30, 2025
Nov 30, 2025 at 5:46 PM UTC
Smelled, sound, sweet, soft, smeared, sowed,
silver
are the hands inside your cashmere sweater.
When you embrace
own fingertips.
It has been cold for so long,
tears have now frozen in your eyes.
When you watch the television,
curled up in decayed warmth,
do you ever think about the air
outside?
Remember the restless wind, the fierce rain,
the unforgivable sun?
Please.
Leave your little world of Cashmere
and return,
into the Day.
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