The grass grows green and flowers bloom
but I'm still stuck in my heart of despair.
I need arms to fall in to;
a dry pair of shoulders to cry on.
Because my arms are weary from breaking falls
and my shoulders are still damp from winter.
What I don't have, I cannot make.
Promise me, Summer. Swear to me, Break.
it sounds like you need to pick yourself out of the snow, as if you'd just crashed in a sled and were temporarily whitewashed.
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