WINTER

I sit alone on the lichen-licked bench where we would spend those sad Sunday afternoons, our lives interlocked and flowing with foolish impossibility, the world rolled red carpet before us as we watched it sigh slowly by. Only a whisper of icy wind can be heard tonight, broken by the occasional drum-hum dour of humdrum soul passing home via headlight, unaware of my eye peering indifferent to the below.

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