frozen, though i sit before a fire.

whispering, though no one else is home.

asking, though answers seem irrelevant.

hungry, though my body has been fed.

the romance of winter

begins to give way

to an endless restlessness,

this craving for forest,

this longing for moon.

such a long way to go

before i get there,

as i sit here,

melting snowflakes

in this room.

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