The cold

The cold starts, it’s uncomfortable. I want to get rid of it fast as possible; because honestly I hate the cold.

Sitting outside on the cold wet grass it crunches covered in frozen dew. I learn quickly you can’t stop the cold, no amount of wishing will make you warm like before; because the cold hates me.

I feel cut, pierced by the cold laying down feeling my movements slow and my warm breath shoot out my mouth forming a cloud, my memory fades of the warmth to begin with but I still get more cold. It hurts more; because I don’t remember the warm.

Time flies under the vast sky of time laying on the crisp grass, warmth is long gone. I dream of what it might be like; because without the warmth the cold feels worse, like I’m missing something I felt I never had.

Finally the cold makes me want to give up, close my eyes and slip into sleep until the sun rises and the warmth is found wherever I wake up; because I dream big of the warmth I never feel anymore. I don’t feel it, not in the shower, not with a hoodie, not in the summer grass.

I lay lips cracked and fingers stiff on the summer grass at the sun, it brings no warmth; because I’ve been used to the cold for so long.