It is snowing inside, a barren patch of roof bares entry
to interiors once warm with ambient glow, the golden splendor
of those who touch and those who go, those who have come and gone,
to leave imprints behind, traced outlines, a message etched in haste
upon frosty panes in condensation, I Love You aside stick figures,
streaked serif flairs over time mar the meaning, seemingly melting
letters despite the cold.

It is snowing inside.

Chagall 2017

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