while these harsh chills are nothing new.
My window with the lights turned off shows clear the city.
I stare at my reflection in the glass, this metropolis in me,
and look on at myself in pity.
Tonight is simply a quiet night and nothing more.
But I will over think all, and under judge much,
until I, weak, find comfort on this hard carpet floor.
Drunk tonight I smother my right hand,
the engine of my creativity, if I can even afford such a word.
For I fear my thoughts are truly dull, horrifyingly bland.
I will wait for our first snow,
the flakes we long to remember home.
While I can only hope our love will tenderly grow,
else I should whither, a dead plant, alone.
