Barbed snowflakes
smugly floating on a winter wind

staring at a bowl
and the shape of the spoon

taking the window seat
and choking on fumes

(the hole is ever widening)
(I couldn’t take away his aches)

nothing green tastes green
in winter

why does my angel let me face
danger in the afternoon

solid footing is elusive
and pockets are meant for secrets

the only true thing about love
is how the moon caresses the hills.

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