Often nights are sleepless,
with twigs of legs tangled in between the snow of the sheets,
and hair in mouth, like spiderwebs in humid air.
Mountain ranges are comprised of jutting hipbones
and glaciers are shifting collarbones -
tempramental, like the first snowfall -
a dusting of copper freckles.
Ribbons of air flow from velvet lips,
a sigh, a howl, a lie, a whisper, a secret:
words are hopelessly slurred like vines intertwined.
But tendrils of hair fall out, pulled out,
softly floating midair,
like dirty snowflakes, makeshift snowflakes,
dancing, dancing, dancing.














Comments
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||+i want to be the one to walk in the sun+||
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||+i want to be the one to walk in the sun+||
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