Claws of snow latch onto our arms, those light and limber arms, already worn to the bone. These squalls have no patience for your coats, for those layers, for your skin, for those layers. It rips and claws and grips and I come away in tendrils. This is an unraveling. This is a revealing. This is the torn off limbs, and the threadbare clothes that have done nothing all along. This is the whipping snow. Its not sweet and plush anymore. Its cold and austere, these derisive howling winds. Its the sterility of planning and the plans, its the wake for the un-awake, its the times and the scheduling and the clothing that needs to be washed. Its the clothing. The threadbare clothing we've wrapped ourselves in. And its these icy claws that rip it away, that could rip anything away. That ripped him away. That are ripping us away, so much i need to cling to you, and bunch your hand in my fist. Im so much more fragile upon realizing that all this life I have is not solid entitlement, but brief and completely fickle luck. That face in that fucking section of the newspaper where no familiar faces are supposed to go.
just give me time
oh baby
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