Little hands

so cold and frail

against the snow, they seem pale

then the numbness comes

as senses fail

and seasons fall

and bend to the frigid hell

barren and broken

a little token

of what we’ve been through

and of what we’re trying to do

blistered brains from the pains of over thinking

and occasionally over drinking

but what does it matter

when we’re all slowly sinking

i can’t read your thoughts

but i like to pretend it’s something beautiful

something kept in a little box

about to overflow.