recycled.

And there were cups of tea full with last years leaves.

There are roots in my bones that soaked up last years snow.

And there were smoke stains in the window pane.

New holes in old paint.

There were scars on the walls that only I could see.

And apple cores too thin for any worm.

Worn down brass handles and flayed carpet ends.

This is where my loneliness becomes a friend.

Whose only form of compassion is a lazy extended hand.

Ruffled blankets taken shapes of sleeping ghosts.

And where silence knows me the most.

Hush an you can hear the birds

Conversations thrown through the wind

But we only speak of pain, our dearest and closest friend.

-addisone