The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.


75. Blue

You told me that you felt cold, so I lit a fire and wrapped a duvet around you.

You began to turn blue.

You told me that you felt numb, so I lit a cigarette and turned the heater up.

You began to shiver.

You told me that there was frostbite on your bones before turning off the light

and falling into sleep.

Your face was drained of colour, and you turned into the December snow as you

slipped away through the cracks between my fingers.

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