White leaves. Cold, fallen hands. Watered-down eyes. You do not want this, even if you do. Our different sadness applies to you, lost beneath a lens of colorless red, inside the smoke of formless dread. Your throat for the bite, as your arms run around your bare form, with simple strands from dark locks. Your fingers scrawl the message, trace the sound, wield the heat, inside the brazen misery. A selfless light from a scorning moon. One bleeding heart that never stopped for day. Winter plays the wonder in her art, keeps her bereft to the wings that falter. Mute scream without pleasure, within seams. A singular shadow told her, would scold her outside of warm weather.