New Year

The wind blows in
early January’s cold
soft, quiet, grey
snowflakes for both
mystery and monotony.

I am holding onto
last night’s moment
where fireworks
lit up our sky
watched them
through reflections
in your eyes
I saw a different beauty

I know
by the warmth
of your measured breath,
and the way our home melts
the runaway snowflakes,
how our heavy comforter
holds the smell
of yesterday’s meals
I am sustained

in my winter.
Written by ursa
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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