Wednesday, July 2, 2014

A tale of two paper-cups

Some winters stay; they pin themselves onto the valleys on your tyres, roll on with you, and spy on the other seasons you go to, burning with envy. They sleep on the footprints you left, churning up with new earth and water, living you and losing themselves. They wait inside empty paper-cups; one of these days, you ought to want more of the coffee from the memory these winters live in.

There's decay on the line. But these winters would rather stay; I'd rather stay. One of these days, you might just notice me, lingering, waiting. And we might be sipping coffee again.

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