January Air
I step out the heavy front door
and into the mist.
I whistle in the cold
January air,
and, remotely, wince
as it scrapes down my throat.
The music in my head slows down a pace,
and I sit on the steps.
The cold concrete-and-brick seems,
for once,
lonely.
The stars aren't as bright,
the breath not as warm,
and the hour not as exciting.
Midnight is so much smaller without you.
and into the mist.
I whistle in the cold
January air,
and, remotely, wince
as it scrapes down my throat.
The music in my head slows down a pace,
and I sit on the steps.
The cold concrete-and-brick seems,
for once,
lonely.
The stars aren't as bright,
the breath not as warm,
and the hour not as exciting.
Midnight is so much smaller without you.
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