The wind wails,
rattles the glass,
claws at the trees,
shakes the bones of the house.
Rain slams down,
rivers racing,
thunder grumbling,
lightning splitting the sky apart.
But here—
Flames flicker,
logs crack,
embers glow,
heat seeps into the floor.
Blankets pile,
heavy, soft,
tucking me in,
wrapping me whole.
Sweater sleeves,
loose and worn,
slip past my hands,
stretched by years of holding on.
A mug of cocoa,
steam curling,
scent of cinnamon,
warmth pressed to my lips.
The storm rages,
wind howls,
windows shudder—
But I am still.
Eyes droop,
fire whispers,
the night holds me close.
Breath deepens,
muscles loosen,
the weight of the day melts away,
and silence settles soft around me.
Fingers twitch once,
then rest,
the world outside growing quieter
as the warmth lulls me deeper.
The fire crackles,
soft as a sigh,
and sleep comes slow,
a quiet invitation
to drift into peace.
She is my peace
her arms my warmth
her smile my joy
her love, my home.
Sometimes, the only way I can describe how I feel when I'm in love, is by comparing it to the warm environment of a cozy cabin contrasted to the harsh weather of when I wasn't in love.
