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You asked me to read you a story,
of soft snowflakes dancing on a winter canvas,
of a grey-blue sky hiding the day
on a sleepy afternoon.
Of cardamon and fairy lights,
a fireplace and silent nights,
a song of winter,
a story of
home.
And I smiled when I said,
My love, I cannot read a story
that is not written in a book.
It’s a tale told
in eyes as blue as a summer sky,
in hushed tones and a lazy smile.
In the beat of a heart, pulsing rapidly,
in the grip of arms, holding me securely.
And you smiled when I said,
This is my favorite winter story.
