The rain. The fog. Londonish.
It's only nice if you have someone to snuggle with, someone to hold, someone to love, and it's somewhat nice if you have a book and a big cup of homemade cocoa and marshmallows. And it is perfect if I have nothing but my bare skin on the pavement, the rain covering me in cold, the chill seeping into my bones. It will possess me until I am nothing but icy lashes and grayish skies, no spirit on the line, no blood to spill over your black trench coat.
You'll be a yellow light in the mist, washing over my form, bathing me in artificial warmth. A paisley shirt. Summer scents of grass and dirt. The tar stuck to my socks that never really stopped smelling of moth balls. And listerine smells like that. So if I washed my mouth out, it would fill back up with you.
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