writingsforwinter:

i think

that we pretend because we have to,

because

because

because the pills are on the counter,

right by our hands, which tremble and shake

like vibrato on a cello.

we say

that tomorrow will be colder;

winter will bleach and frost and tear and then

mend ,

again, our bones.

but our sweaters are too cold by themselves

to be left alone.

i believe in anything (and everything)

you throw at me. maybe we are paragraphs.

or periods or commas or endless circles.

and i think

that is okay with me.