winter

often

we take sips out of grey skies,

they taste of dust-coated coffee beans

and seared misgivings

 

often

we wear loose grins

glassy eyed against pallid hues

 

often

we wield shards of glass

and cut mondays onto our tongues

& splay our fingers against

ridges of hardwood floors

 

often

we think about how it is

the best touch to taste

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