A wintry frost on the October-clad doorstep, pattern unrecognised.

Tell me, tell me.

With the end of the year falling in, will it be taken in with open arms?

Or would those open arms signify surrender?

Are you holding on because you want to, or because you’re afraid of who you’ll become if you don’t?

All these questions, framed in ways innocent and disguised.

Glance to the side, watch you walk in my direction.

I wonder, silently, as to whether my feet will gravitate toward you or otherwise.

The earth is moving.

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