Russian winter. It is late, late fall. I think of back East when the wolf gets
not just an hour but an entire season. That cold, soul coughing pain in my
outside the city without you.
is the time of year when hearts may break. By three o-clock the trees grow
silhouettes, shadows birthed by a falling sun.
song you hum, I can not sleep without my music. Well, I can but in the morning
my dreams are kept from me, as are we.