I'd be foolish to leave doors open. I can feel the gust of cold winds. I can hear the whistle of what-if's.
Your frantic fireballs of eyes, of soft skin, feed my fear of fall--a stitched up sweater for the fridged air.
And I can't help but ask myself, oh, can I break plans? Or can I even plan the inevitable? Is my crippling cough just a constant, and your seductive smile expendable?
I can't help but curse myself for never closing doors I open.
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