Winter is for lovers.
Huddled beneath covers,
a refuge within walls, within eachother.
No storm could weather this warmth,
bound and unbound,
limbs entwined among the hearth.
Winter is for lovers.
As the wind carries our whispers away.
Our mirth enshrined in the white caps beyond these doors.
Smile, muted beauty,
for today the space between us has no room for sorrow. And tomorrow, the sun will reclaim the sky,
but for now, beneath these covers,
Winter is for lovers.
Slowly, love. Let us not hurry along. For the days are short, and our time shorter still. Let my hand carry your heart a little further. Remember these places. Remember it all. The words we spoke and the wordless smiles that said so much more. Slowly, love. As these shadows stretch before us, as the curtains close on today, let us not think of tomorrow. Remember these moments. Remember it all. That we felt love in its infinite form and did not ask for more. That we knew to take it as it was. And to remember. Remember it all. Slowly, love. Night is here. And the dawn will not wait.
When the abyss within you beckons you deeper, arise.
When your light is consumed by the bloodthirsty moon, arise.
When the silence that soothes you begins to awaken, arise.
When the water once still, fills up your lungs, arise.
When the walls that protect you begin to confine you, arise.
For all that we are was raised from the dust. Sinew and bone, mortar and rust.
Arisen from self. Arisen from us.
We melancholic souls, arise.
In her eyes he senses the twilight glean of a dreamer. Someone capable of seeing what love could become. There was beauty in her reverie. He leans in closer, affixed to her gaze. Yet her eyes, unmoved, stare at horizons far beyond. In that moment, a heart breaks, as the rift is revealed between a dreamer and a lover. That's when he knew she could never love him as much as she imagined.
Come, my love, and walk softly along my shores.
How strange we are. Those who fear what they crave. Who deny themselves what would heal the very wounds which they protect. Who shun those with open arms. They stand in the shadows, unseen, huddled to their delusional safety. Truly alone. Away from the warmth that'd bring them home. Why? Why are you so afraid of intimacy? Why do you choose to isolate? What if the only threat there ever was is the one you hide away with...what if it were within...not without. It's time to come home.
Autumn reminds us that there is beauty in the breakdown. That the strongest trees, inured by countless winters, bent but never broken, cold but never frozen, alone yet still a refuge; it is they who stand firm upon their ground, who balk the strains of false virtue; it is those that paint the world with the most vibrant colors.
We are always in the presence of two paths through the wilderness. The one you are told to traverse, and the other you create. For those who choose to step beyond, they must do so alone. Walk among your fellow wanderers, share your stories and build your bonds. But know they too are on their own paths. We can offer them nourishment, but we cannot tell them to go where we ourselves have yet to discover. For those who seek the arduous path know that being lost is how the brave build wisdom. And above all do not listen to the screams from those who stayed the straight and narrow. For they can only see one path, forged by fear of the wilderness that you've become.
Walk with me, my love. Let us go to places where few have tread. Let us listen to the song of silence. Hold my hand and let me take you to the border of whim and woe. Make your feet bare and let the grass tickle your toes. We will stay here as long as you need, beside still waters, beside eachother. When night creeps in we shall build a fire and taunt the darkness with our shadows. And if the fear should find you, you need only turn your head to know that you are not alone. I will be here until the morning. I shall remain until your hands no longer search for mine. It is then that you will walk from this place alone and begin your journey anew. I will smile from my woods, where you are forever welcome.
There's a place deep within our woods that we will not go. It's rotten walls shelter the things of which we do not speak. The windows, weathered and worn, darken the daylight. The doors barred from the inside, refuse inquisition. Yet it is here that our thoughts often reside. It is this place, however small and unassuming, that has the power to rule your domain. Make it your haunt. Make it your home.