what the cold brings

The wind drowns the sun and pulls goose bumps from my skin. My bed welcomes me the best it can, but even in warmth of down feathers I get lonely. An orange light haunts my slipping conscious, seeping through closed blinds, through closed lids. I look forward to sleep, but know it always ends too soon.

I see beauty in sorrow before glee. Good feelings inevitably follow the sad—if not, maybe suicide, the richest kind of sorrow, that in itself possesses a dark beauty. Within sorrow exists a security that conditions will improve, and happiness offers the opposite guarantee. I long for you when I'm lonely, and forget you when I'm content. But I find myself forgetting a lot of things lately, a lot of people. I have convinced myself it is okay to forget.