7-shrill blips
A warm bed in winter
Dim light reaching in
Cold hands
Gurgling stomachs
The smell of burnt toast
Streaks of marmalade
And thick reserves of butter
Crumbs on crooked smile
The mirror
Like a cameo carved
In your image
Golden hair
Cold hands
Smoothing it down
With a silky, emerald green oil
Ready to go
A kiss on our cheeks
A little dance
And a wave from the window
Watching as I go
Watching as I return
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