If it were up to me, I’d rather the winter sun set without clouds. Just the golden rim of the earth, the inked velvet of the stars. I appreciate the honesty of it. Bare, open, like winter itself. A kiss to the fingertips; a sigh, then another; the first heady draught of sleep.

“Love was a promise made of smoke in a frozen copse of trees;
A bone cold and older than our bodies slowly floating in the sea.”