December (the cliche)

Dying isn’t so hard, look away and it will pass.
Glass is brittle as bone trees, breathe out she says.
Snowflakes are just like everybody else.
A clear sky, overrated.
If my fingers could find the bottom of this bathtub or the conflagration of this chimney top.
Wouldn’t that be something?
Yes.
And time and minutes and moments and forever and never.
Ever.
Snowy, isn’t it. I can see my breath I can see my breath I can see my breath.
All misty on your silly smile, melt.
And the world dies with you.