Window Flower

Sipping hot tea, that warmth seeping into my cold hands from the mug. Sitting by the window, looking out to the street in the most clichéd manner ever. Looking at the lights and zooming cars but in reality not a sight getting through. Just sitting, nothing to do, nowhere to be. One of those Saturdays just so simply free

 

When being alone doesn’t hurt, it’s actually a very warm feeling to embrace…

And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it be less—
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.