Poems & Musings,  Writing

The Embers Still Burn

When was it that you lifted your shoulders in a shrug, and let the world have its way with you?

When was it that you let the fire within you die, because passion is painful, and routine is safe and comfortable and easy?

You were my furnace when my entire world was winter.

But now you’re cold, and I’m sitting here in the silence, counting points on each snowflake.

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