Winter come.

by Gela

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It’s so cold out now.

I just remember it faintly when my freshly painted toes glimmered “teenage dream” under the smiling sun. Iced Americano in my hand, I wonder if this coffee is Italian origin. I don’t think so. I really want a Italian roast right now. I close my eyes  just long enough to feel the warmth of rays without feeling burnt.

I open it now.

Now, I have a hot drink in one of those red cups everyone is freaking out about. I just think. What’s the big deal. But what if it is..?

And a feeling of cold just cold, and dark. Well maybe it’s because I’m closing my eyes. It’s a feeling of solidarity solitary. Ironic isn’t it. A feeling so familial, so close to existence of time. No. Existence of being.

Summer is like that boy I met on a warm, breezy night. We drove down PCH with the windows down, our hair blowing in the wind. We kissed each other unwillingly goodbye but with eager anticipation to see what spontaneity awaited us the next day. But Winter, Winter is the one who looks at me with his deep sunken eyes and sexy tousled hair telling me to come to bed. Telling me stories of his trip to Iceland and asking me my thoughts on a Degas.

I cannot do without both.

And just like that my carefree loving Summer collapsed into a beautiful chaotic Winter.

 

 

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