I always write about winter.

When it's here, it ravages,
and the winds howl with dawn of white.
Christmas lights with frozen shells,
hot coffee steam and lights remember.
I'm tired of the cold, she whispers.
it's always so empty.
the wrong arms, the wrong taste -
perhaps this past year has moulded us
into creatures we wouldn't recognize.
I don't want to see you, she says,
not like this - not reeking like this.
the cold bounds, and covers the world.
green was once dominant, right?
it's as if she forgets what's real.
(Run,) she hears, in the corners
of her conciousness.
(run.)

---- only one?!