Cold nights are always so wonderful to read about in books.
Within the confines of my warm room, I always want to step out into the crispiness of it all. To breathe in that cleansing cold air and breathe out those dragon puffs into the mittens of my hands. Cold tipped ears, cold tipped nose, warm cinnamony sentiments.
But without, it is such a different story.
It was cold last night. The assault was instantaneous. ‘Ere I stepped out, and there I was shrouded within the frigid folds of the night.
Stiffened bones, broken breath, burning lungs…
I was beside myself with the misery of it until I happened to look up. And there the moon cut a sickle against the night sky and glowed softly towards the star. And the lone star winked back at the moon and perhaps blushed at her own temerity. There was a softness there. A romance. Warm cinnamony sentiments.
I kept my gaze skyward, shamelessly eavesdropping on the lovers, until the glow of their mayhap-imagined romance overwhelmed me and what warmth was mine until shelter could be found.