I have an issue with warm summer days:
They're warm.
I much prefer a rainy day at the window
listening to the pattering of rain splots
upon the grass.
The deep scent of comfort,
a soft chill cured by a thin blanket
(or a loving hug).
And of all the nights to etch themselves
into the twisted nether confines of my memory,
they are always of winter months
and powdered snow;
they are always delicate
and childishly free.
Because in the coldest of nights
there is always a warm fire to be made
and a hot cup of lemon tea with some honey,
even if I don't have a fireplace.













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~Save me from my fears, save my butterflies and love me forever, my beloved Styx~
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