The wind often finds its way into the desolated room;
It's the cracks, but you can't seem to find any.
You count the days as it caresses your skin. It carries the changing seasons as they fall.
Time; slowly devouring worlds and their memories.
It is always winter adorned in white and silent rivulets when you dream.
They flow so gently into the edges of the world and disappear.
And from the edges, the wind flows. Somehow, you always feel like it's looking for you,
or maybe you are merely in its way.
In the pauses of the wind, you can hear the words;
it is as if the world wants to be heard amidst the silence.
Perhaps, that's how we know each other. Not as stories,
but mere whispers the wind bears that you can barely comprehend.
Outlines that slip through your fingers so gently.
You can feel the world weep in silence when the wind caresses your skin, and the gentle
melancholy decays.
Time passes in silence; unlike the wind, you can never truly feel it
unless you look down at your wrinkled skin. It decays with every passing wind.
When the wind finally forgets the cracks and move past your mere remembrance,
You have nothing more to write, nothing more to remember.
The dead skin becomes bereft of meaning. But it always snowed,
in white and silence.
