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Cold Hands MAG
You hate cold hands, so
You shove them in your pockets
As you walk up the driveway
Late on Friday night
You're surprised to see me here, I can tell.
I know I've usually left a note
On the countertop next to a sticky ring of coffee
Made sometime this morning by your cup
Explaining that I'll be back by eleven.
I haven't spent Friday night here in quite a while.
“And how was your day?”
Well, let me tell you exactly what you want to hear.
My homework's already been done.
I'm all prepared for the project next week
And the test on Monday.
Everything is absolutely perfect.
“Let me make you some tea.”
Because I know you hate cold hands.
I'll boil the water, choose your tea,
And gracefully present it to you.
“Cream and sugar?”
Still, I'm managing to maintain that smile,
A phony smile.
How do you always fall for that smile
Without seeing right through it?
I assume you will forgive me now.
I know it's still early, but you see,
The tea's gone cold by now,
And I know that you hate cold hands.
I won't be of much help anymore.
The only words I have left are cold.