Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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The thing about winter is that it's honest. No leaves to hide behind.
Saturday starts with silence, slow and soft, sheets still warm from sleeping in.
It's not the presents. I know it's not the presents because the best Christmas I ever had was the year we couldn't afford them.
Home is not the address. It's the sound the lock makes when you've been gone too long.
The world decided to start over last night.
The kettle hisses its slow complaint— ssssssss— like a secret it's been holding since last night.
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