Where the rain runs bleakly down the window.
Outside it pours against me, blows my hair into my face.
Grey skies remind me of woolen skirts and being in your arms.
Such a wonderful thing, for such a depressing colour.
The seas mirror the skies
And their white tipped perfection is welcoming and warm.
Salty, soaking into wool.
Heavy goes the day into thoughts that still remain
And here I am thinking of how easy it would be
To die within the span of my lunch break.
Such simple minutes that eliminate such painful years