Ice cold hands in the morning of December, caress a flower that bloomed in the chilliness. They look prettier in the cold, but they die on the 23rd of the month.
What is it?
YOU ARE READING
A Letter
PoetryThis is my own personal shit that I have written. I will finish it here and maybe never return until I get into the same depressing shit again. Hits best when read using dark mode.
