Fingertips frozen,
Arms up my sleeve.
But I have to write this idea down.
My hands are already filled with ink.
Everything has to be gold these days.
Golden chain, Golden eyes, Golden soul, Golden ring.
Still want to be the one to speak her name as mine though.
It's cold outside,
But I'm colder.
You poor thing.

I wonder
if I am (still)

the distant roar
that travels shyly
past your ears

while you sleep.