It's soooooooooo
cold,
You could snap my toes off 
Like mould,
In  buildings old,
Where erry ghost stories
Will be told…

I have a cold, and

I enjoy the drowsiness --


It gives me shelter.

It's running through
my whole body. Every
little strand of sinew
and every piece of
cartilage can feel it.
What's wrapping
my body is cold,
dry and famished,
craving wrapping.
Cigarette ash linens,
it's sticky at the bottom
of a cup on the ground.
Bats in barren caves yet
warmer than in my grotto.

It didn't matter

that the bird

survived.

It didn't matter

that the council

drained the lake.

The long

summer

never actually

arrived.

The blue sky

eventually went

and lived else-

where.

I asked the dog

why you were

so sad. Was told

that you always

hated July. Something

about the coldness,

and so

always having to hold

on to the

warmest parts

of each other.

You once asked me,
what the world would be like
if we didn't love,
didn't smile,
didn't touch.
If we never met
under the stars.
If I never caught my breath
in the breeze of that summer night,
my heart struck by lightning.
Or maybe it was your beauty.
I told you I'd cease to exist in a world
without you,
my heart would freeze.
Shatter from the cold.
But I met you, loved you.
I know I did.
So why then
is the world
so utterly
cold.

When I started
filling the cracks in my soul,
something soft
slipped out with the bile.

To be honest,
I’m not even sure
what that piece was anymore.

With the fury gone,
so too went the color —
the richness.

And while I’m satisfied
the hatred exists only in memory,
I long for that
beautifully vibrant world.

The snow falls quietly,
a thousand small promises,
each one different,
but all landing in the same place.
They rest on our noses,
soft as the moments we’ve shared,
melting away before they can be held.

There is something in the air tonight—
not the cold,
but a warmth that hides beneath the chill,
like the space between breaths,
where words are not needed
but understood.

You are the stillness of the evening,
the way the world quiets itself,
not because it must,
but because it knows.
I watch the snow settle around us,
each flake a kiss on the skin,
a touch that stays only long enough
to remind us
how fragile and perfect this is.

The light from the windows spills out,
but it’s not the glow of Christmas
that warms the space.
It’s the quiet love we’ve carved here—
not in gifts or decorations,
but in the way we exist,
like snowflakes in the dark,
falling,
slowly drifting,
landing softly in the snow.

Echos of the forgotten children
dance along the
breeze.
With tired eyes and weary smiles
as they
sleep along the streets.

No kind words or helping hands
from the strangers
passing by,
just echos of forgotten children
an
endless
hopeless cry.

Nowhere to turn, no place to run.
Just lonely
damaged souls.
They try to hide or numb the pain
of being left out
in the cold.

Years its been,
since they felt warmth;
most do not remember love.
So the echos of forgotten children
are quietly swept,
under
the rug.

Their tears trace familiar paths
across their
*****
cheeks.
The echos of forgotten ones
that sleep along
the streets.

Its cold its dark,
they are alone.
They fear the end
is soon.
So they numb their pain
in any way
even if it brings their
doom.

The echos of forgotten children
forced to grow up
much to fast,
dance their way
through lonely streets.
Reminders of
their
tragic
past.