They are the Sun streaming through the window
They are the fog peeping through the window
They are steaming cup of tea
They are leg warmers over the knee
They are a dog waiting for an empty warmed spot
They are fire crackling on the logs
They are a bowl of hot soup
They are Jazz on a loop
They are a goblet of wine
They are a heart that’s not mine
They are my cold hands in your warm ones
They are your eyes on my face
They are your warm breath in my hair
Only that you’re not here
Winters are not a season
Winters are pure, raw emotion
They are a yearning to be warm
Yet I miss them when they’re gone.
Leave a comment