The morning wakes at exactly 7:38AM
The sun arching, shadows shrinking in terror of the cold
I can see my breath in the chill of the late September air
The city is dead
If only whispered, solemnly words are spoken
Newspapers dance in and out of traveling feet
Accompanied by Styrofoam cups retreating under cars
The warmth of old buildings, dusty with years
Call out their sanctuary
My destination is not their archways, stone halls
Nor their stained glass windows
My destination is much simpler
Wrapped in your height and strength
Solid arms and brave body, engulfing
Guarded against the ice of the window
Stored away for winter
Swallowed by literature
We are the forbidden, accepted
Author notes
A WIP I will prolly never come back too.
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