The day bids farewell.
Too soon, too fast.
The people pass by.
The stories heard but unregistered.
It is a cold evening.
Warming the cold hands over tea.
The tea turns colder,
Warmth of the day fades as the sun.
That Of the hands turning colder.
The stories of fireplaces and cozy blankets,
Rising whispers of bitter-nothings.
Yet so cold.
The night awaits
In all its darkness,
Echoes of silence,
Smells of death,
The night keeps waiting.