I press my cold fingers agaainst my cherubic cheek.
The dark clouds have formed outside, and I am without a jacket.
I beg for the rain to come; for it to pour down on my skin.
The warmth of my lonely heart grows cold as I linger in the feelings of hope and desire.
It hurts to breathe sometimes.
I lose focus as the world around me shifts to a world of my own creation.
Words pour out of me as the rain falls and f
My butterflies shiver, as the cold shakes me to the core.
Wishing for the warmth of a true heart is a dead-end because there is never a heart as true as your own.
I climb to the base of a tree and lay myself in the once warm dirt.
Allowing myself to sleep, I dream of my own reality.
My rain never stops.