Little white stars fall from clouds of dust,
and cloak everything in its consistent snowy texture.
As I look out my window for the first time,
I see peace fall gently upon the sidewalk.
I can already smell the hot chocolate and cinnamon.
I can feel the sweaters and snow boots
I wore when I was a kid,
when I went to build my annual snow fort.
Memories of friendship remind me of the good times I had as a child.
So I’ll sip my cinnamon tea and reminisce.
I’ll relive the youthfulness that once dwelt inside me
in my head, the one place that wants to grow up.
This snow pulls the trigger to a gun that houses
bullets of carelessness, and there is only one left.
And so I’ll sit here, playing Russian Roulette,
while pointing youth at my head.
I won’t let this be the death of me.
People who aren’t afraid of heights.
I’M NOT AFRAID OF HEIGHTS EITHER BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN I WOULD WANT TO HANG PRECARIOUSLY FROM A BUILDING