lets hid between the walls of this old place (it's warm and the ghosts don't seem to mind) under the dripping tap and behind the power sockets until summer comes. we'll sit on the roof when the snow falls and the frost collects on the trees, because those are the nice things about winter but i'll miss when we'd try to scoop the trees reflections out of the lake with our palms. the light still pours in through the windows though, with the right angle we'll be able to pretend its a summer sun and i'll attempt to glimpse whatever matter makes your eyes so green. they way your iris absorbs the light... like the aperture of a camera and so on. the lighter your eye colour the farther north your ancestors lived is what i've heard. we held hands because we had several things in common, like past lives and the four walls of a room when we were teenagers, as well as various addictions that will get us through the next few months. but for now we belong to winter because we belong in the present.
