(patchworkgirl) wrote,

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in which i am longing and you are cold...

the crisp cruelty of a burtonian november has taken up residence under my feet,
becoming the delicate crumbles left in the wake of a frightful heart
and i cannot seem capture a cure for this virulent vacancy
(these sheets are lacking)
but you should know i'd prefer to pull you up, over my head
and wait out this snow.
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