Cleavage, cleavage, cleavage

It wears her. Out.

Overnight, the temperature plummets. You look out the window and everything looks the same, except the sidewalks are empty. Everything withers, a year comes to a close, you gather up the threads and attempt to see the weave they made. A new year lies in wait on the horizon, bright and shiny like an unwritten page. You vow to choose your words carefully, but with courage. Blessings pile up around your tattered clothes and unkempt hair, a radiator slaves away underneath your broken window, and typewriters don't care about the weather, they only care about you having something to say.

I still don't paint futures,
but I am still here.
I am staying on the page.