Fuck me my hands are freezing and I feel a bit sick.
I like the quiet reservedness of early morning.
The birds tweet,
but its sweet, not overbearing.
It's cold, but it's fresh
and it holds
all the promise of adventure
and new starts, broken hearts,
tears of sadness, tears of joy,
just a girl, just a boy,
see what happens: if it soars, or if it falls.
Who can tell
what the future will bring.
But the birds still sing in the quiet reservedness of early morning.
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