iMessage
My hands smell like you and coffee I spilled on the bed in the room. That you and I filled just an hour ago. Nobody knows or remembers what they hold. Your hands are as cold as fossilised bone but the hands that I hold are always this cold so I guess that's my type. Frozen in ice with blood running slowly inside. But your circulation is better than mine. I'm freezing to death and I can't go outside. In this harsh winter weather I'll slowly be buried inside.
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