deep greens and blues are the colors i choose
it's funny how we crave those times:
it's funny how we crave those times:
crunching through lifeless leaves piled high in the gutter
the train's low, slow, sad whistle through the wispy morning chill
the long, dimly-lit rows in isolation and the smell of the books
his tiny and inconceivably wise newborn face and lips with no words
i remember them, rocking in the dark with a tea mug growing cold in my hands.
