The world is gray outside today.
The clouds with their neutrality linger just above the tip tops of the houses, and the rain falls slow, skinny prickles of cold water from some dripping faucet. The leaves are falling now, faster every day, trees are hibernating, and the green grass takes on an orange and brown blanket.
I find myself grabbing my coat more often now, bringing my old red hoodie with me when I walk outside. When winter comes, it makes the walls seem older and further away, and high ceilings seem to reach up ten feet tall. And maybe up there, maybe just over those high ceilings is some girl with long hair who will let it down and let me climb up and over. It's all just a figment, I think sometimes, love is, or whatever matter of love we have created in our market-fried minds. It seems further off than those walls and ceilings, and just a taste will make you stay longer than you should.
I miss so much sometimes, of what a steady love can bring. Fireside chats, spontaneous car rides, first kisses, sleeping in each other's arms, the warmth of their body, the cool of the air, silly singalongs, allowing yourself to be real, to live; the beauty of first love. Innocent and free, young and unbridled. Come to think of it, life in general, along with love, is so much memory it almost seems to good to have been true. I think on holding someone, holding hands, kissing, the memory of their lips in the brain of mine, and it fades more everyday, that stimulus left further and further behind in the path of life. The way it felt to have someone wrapped in you, their perfume, their laugh on your shoulder. It seems so far. And pictures don't help, just hurt, because they remind you of what was, and what seems as if it will never be.
When the world is cold, and no warmth to be found, allow Jack Frost wrap you around with his cold sheeted gown, to blot out the memory of love ever found.
What new mystery is this?
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