Rain needles the windowpane, soft and cruel,
a silver net cast over the world's slow breath.
Inside, I cradle heat-
dark and bitter as memory-
in a chipped mug that knows my hands.
The throw blanket clings like a second skin,
threadbare, trusted, steeped in the scent
of long hours and quiet survival.
At my feet, the slow thud of his sigh-
my great beast of comfort, fur soaked in dreams.
Outside, the world drowns in its own grey hush.
Inside, I sip the storm away-
one steaming mouthful at a time.
May 12, 2025
May 12, 2025 at 11:06 PM UTC
Rain needles the windowpane, soft and cruel,
a silver net cast over the world's slow breath.
Inside, I cradle heat-
dark and bitter as memory-
in a chipped mug that knows my hands.
The throw blanket clings like a second skin,
threadbare, trusted, steeped in the scent
of long hours and quiet survival.
At my feet, the slow thud of his sigh-
my great beast of comfort, fur soaked in dreams.
Outside, the world drowns in its own grey hush.
Inside, I sip the storm away-
one steaming mouthful at a time.
It's been raining nonstop for hours. A hot cup of coffee in my hands, warm throw blanket wrapped around me, and my faithful companion at feet are the perfect comfort for a cold and dreary day.
Request permission to use this poem