Same leather brown, ripped cushion in the corner table, tucked in the back of the historic house-turned-coffee shop in the sleepy village I know so well.
Same window sill with blistered wood, bare branches with their needle fingers scraping against the pane. Same glare of light hazed above woolen clouds.
Same hope warming my chest that nurtured a young dreamer who set her heart on paper and dared to imagine her words would make a difference.
It’s the end of the year, memories swarming my head like bees wrapping their lips around the lilies. I am two halves, dangling on the edge of today, toeing the air of tomorrow.
What is the new year but another chance? Hopes balled in a basket of days, minutes to breathe again, restore broken relationships, right the wrongs.
Steam screams from the espresso machine as the young girl behind the counter pumps chocolate into a golden cup. In the street, cars crawl over fresh snow, a woman pauses to close her jacket to the wind.
I am not who I was, yet unknown evolution glides like a stream within my heartbeats to come.
My days are numbered, but infinity ruminates in the forest of my soul, pools between soft moss, maple memories.
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