The air is gelid, it's as if I’ve touched the spiraled stove again. This time it’s all over. I rock on my heels, matching the tempo of the passing seconds. I wait until the warmth encases me. My nails become brittle, they crack; crescent fragments sink into glass. It is a familiar feeling, waiting.
I dream of him less than I used to -
But our story always starts the same.
I am small, and his oil stained hands hold me like the Red Clover;
So tightly that I think he’ll never let me go.
It is 4 in the morning and I am alone.
I sit my sadness on the willow tree.
And the Earth is covered in a thousand shards of heaven;
Like a kaleidoscope, rainbows fall through the trees.
Beautiful wasteland;
Rainbows refracting onto
Stairs of heavens gate.
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