January 14, 2012
Condensation fogging up the window from the frigid rain,
The warmth exceeding from your fingertips, forming the same image every time.
The image my fingertips always trace seems to be the same crudely drawn heart, filled with our initials,
Over a minute or two it disappears
And I feel as if I need to breath my soft breath on the chilled glass to make it reappear once more.

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