Hatred perfumes my accusations But I’m still dressed with tatters and holes, Hollow by my midnight wishes, Empty like the ceiling feeling snow. Seasons, holy seasons, Rushing through the windy suns, They come so surprisingly enchanted By the lovely sound of hope. Weather doesn’t know here is called the hopeless-romantic, Too many fibers wasted sewing wounds, The heat is colder as we keep drowning And the cold is the air letting out. So I bottle my illusions To petrify the memories once lived, They converge into static pictures Scattered like autumn leaves. And time flays my slowly, As I vanish to another cold spring, Your claws take root of my bow and arrow And the wind sways you far from here. Again time unravels my summer Into pieces of orangey nights, Seconds stand still in the split hour While winter grins and embraces me not. i'm going to buffalo with luisa on january yai!!