There is something so romantic about the morning cold caressing my skin.
When it stings you because you moved too fast,
and when it numbs your toes pink and white.
Cuddling farther and farther into the blankets to hide from it,
feeling icicles all over when you finally decide to get up.
The December morning,
pitch black at 7 am,
and the howl of the pink sunrise through the window gently poking at your coffee.
The purr of the wind,
layering scarves and jackets,
hot chocolate rebelling against the cold while travelling down your throat,
and the ice on your windshield.
Everything is so much simpler,
so much better,
when you wake up cold
on a regular Tuesday in the dead of winter,
and fall in love with the way the wind moves against you,
and you long for the sun to melt the snow.
How romantic and thoughtful is it that the cold will always be there to comfort you and numb the pains of life.
YOU ARE READING
Pressed Flowers
PoetryWe are flowers under pressure, shoved into books and told to behave. These juices that flow from my petals end up onto paper, and they are presented to you. These pressed flowers are my childhood, my teenage years, and my life. They are my battle sc...
