Frozen Ghosts

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Coffees in our hands, smoke in our mouths.

The morning is nearly-silent, hoarse mutterings.

Chipped teeth on glass bottles, pounding bass.

Sticky fumblings, trembling hands.

Sweat.

The stench of bile, broken condoms, pounding headaches.

A single flake falls, an angels feather.

We turn to eachother, awed by its purity.

The grime washes away, time ticks backward.

Persistent smiles, the chilled metal of monkey bars.

Scraped knees, juice stained shirts, lunch boxes, scribbled sneakers.

Crayon masters.

The glistening layer of white grows thicker.

Wide-eyed, we run through it, let it fall on our tongues.

Laughing.

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