as the years drag forward a distinctive bitter taste develops in the back of the throat much like the taste of ash or the stale aftermath of spirit and smoke, and not for no reason, there is just plenty to be sad about. every morning in the winter, it’s a little colder and in the…

too beautiful for us, never meant for us, the way it is, the way it will always be– we can look, but never more. they dance before our eyes and caress what we cannot have, such a tease for empty hearts staring on and on, ashamed of what we have become. safe in here, though…