seethingblue's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- lakes of asphalt after the rain against the frosty glass of him, where there is little warmth, perhaps cradled in a wool scarf or the soggy mittens that have turned from black, to coal gray in the wash, you press your lips and wait. the radio is humming, broken and caramelizing you against the frosty glass of him, where there is only warmth, perhaps in your pink fingertips or the only thing you wanted, a circular embrace. 14:58 - 11 December, 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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