it's pretty chilly in here

Snow is falling, and as I watch the cold, fluffy whiteness consume trees, ground, and world, I can’t think of anything but the cozy warmth that you hear about in Christmas songs. A blazing fire, flickering red, orange, and sometimes blue, slowly but relentlessly devouring the wood pile. Hot chocolate, dispatching tendrils of mist into the air above it, radiating waves of heat through my chilly fingers, leaving a film of chocolate-y particles on the bottom of my mug. An inviting wool blanket swallowing up my entire body, opened just enough for a book to poke through, covering my toes and spilling over the couch. Radiators singing their happy, hissy songs. The oven door left open a crack, spreading cheery warmth through the kitchen. Flannel sheets and layers of covers, screaming to be crawled under and seeming to harness all of the coziness in the entire world in one twin bed.

But I’m sitting here in the office doing homework. Or, rather, not doing homework. It's pretty chilly in here. And thinking about this just makes me feel colder.

perfectionist

i've decided
that i can't please everyone

but i don't really believe it

it's winter in New England - a drabble and a half of 150 words

“This means that five divided by five equals one,” she says to the class, realizing that she is probably more bored than her students. It has been a long week, and it is only Wednesday. There is a lot on her mind. She is tired. She doesn’t want to be here.
“IT’S SNOWING!” one of the children shouts, racing to the window.
“IT IS!?” twenty-five other voices ask.
“Calm down, guys. Sit down, Robbie,” she says, trying to be patient. No one listens to her. Everyone’s attention is outside. Soon the whole class is struggling to squeeze into a place on the window seat. She repeats her command, but the snow is too alluring for the children to obey.
She sighs, an unexpected smile suddenly spreading over her face. It is snowing. And it is beautiful.
She walks to the window to join the children in their simple, innocent awe.

lukewarm december

a lukewarm december is bittersweet
i don't want to bask in the unwanted heat
the days have grown shorter, the nights have grown long
the radio's playing old holiday songs
with highs in the sixties, i'm tired of fall
come season of Christmas! bring snow days for all!

Mirror, mirror

The American model has tiny feet
Long legs
Sculpted calves

The American model looks stunning
Eats little
Weighs nothing

The American model is photoshopped
Made up
Breathtaking

Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Am I beautiful at all?

hold my hand - an almost drabble of 105 words

Our fingers slide over each other, lacing together intricately - two hands clasped in perfect compatibility, down to the way even his fingertips brush between my knuckles.
His palm is rough and leathery, his fingers broader than mine. When the muscles contract in a loving squeeze, I'm aware of how delicate my hand is, and how much I trust him to cradle it.
His thumb traces the contours of my wrist. I shiver.
We do not move. We do not speak. We barely breathe. And yet, between us, there is something beyond words, a bond expressed in hands and found in hearts.
This is love.

meteor shower

I am not my own
For I have been made new
Please don't let me go
I desperately need You
- - Owl City
http://www.owlcitymusic.com/