When the wind shakes the shutters outside
I crawl to the couch with my cup of coffee.
Staring through the panes at the pale sick sky,
I nustle the warmth off the fabric around me.
No such comfort exists outside of dry socks on cold feet.
The thought of work hangs heavy in my mind
Yet still I make space in my time
To search through the clouds
Thinking of her.
Perhaps I’ll go for a walk in the woods
Or maybe I’ll play the same notes through my head.
Whatever I do,
Wherever I go,
I’ll never stop plucking her hair from my pillow.