I’m laying on the floor,
Three feet from my bed.
Wondering if there was more,
That could have been said.
I think I’ll sleep here tonight.
I’ll grab that bottle, it warms to the bone.
If I had said sorry, then I might,
Not be sleeping alone.
The ground is cold,
Her words were ice.
My feelings were once more untold.
So I take a sip of the cinnamon spice.
And drift slowly into sleep.
Primitive Poetry 
great piece!
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Wow I love it so following you now to see all your other stuff
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I am naughty and nice, not sugar but spice. The drink in your hand tolls the bell that you rang. May you hear me singing to you in your sleep.
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Wat
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That cinnamon spice won’t proivde much warmth, not against that kind of cold. But after reading that, I have to quote Frank Herbert. “The spice must flow.” I certainly hope things got better after this was written, William.
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