December

cotton gets stained indigo
from watercolor tubes i forgot
to close & the snow
melted long before i
poured the first drips of coffee
into an already-stained mug.
 
words pile up as decimals become
a form of currency & i
should have cut my hair
but i can’t remember
what i wanted to look like
when i was seventeen.
 
my toes and fingers are
as cold as emails i
never replied to, as
cold as the amount of times
i silently shout i love you
& do you love me &
let’s run away together.
 
i’ve run out of pages now
so i’ll scrawl the rest
on my palms