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thick and hazy morning clings to my skin and lingers on my breath.
it is the blanket engulfing me.
it is the sandman overstaying his welcome.
it is the heaters crackling,
the furnace rumbling,
the cat purring,
the coffee maker gurgling.
the coffee and the sky are the same color in this light.
the morning presents itself in sleepy hues of blues
interrupted by the fading yellow street lights,
their reflection glistening fragments on the rain-soaked asphalt.
the sky is a purgatory of words unsaid.
pens lost in the hallway,
words clinging to the tip of the tongue,
thoughts stashed away in the attic.
they all linger in the form of greying cotton balls,
suspended just above our heads,
taunting us all,
waiting for winter to kick them out
with an icy slap to the nose that reaches the toes
and chills to the bone.
this morning's cold is the kind of cold that doesn't just cling to your skin.
it seeps into your pores,
pierces through your fat and muscle
and burrows into your bones.
it becomes a part of you,
builds up over years of harboring winters and weathering heartbreak.
it cracks you open, leaves you raw and exposed and shaking.
it's the kind of cold you carry with you and no amount of blankets and hot cocoa can fix it.