alienhunny

The snowflakes give up their ghosts with grace, with an aging worthy of jealousy. Their path from the clouds is lucid and supple and not the incoherent avenue that these wasted eyes travel. They find their End on the cold glass- It is a death of distinctive wet translucence, more endearing than anyone could aspire to. With this moist transience, with this sheer complaint passing, The snowflakes relinquish their delicate forms, And I cannot help but envy their diaphanous departure.