the brass door handle is stone cold. it begins to melt as you grab it and squeeze it tight. as the handle turns, tiny wool threads brush your wrist to remind you they’re here to keep you warm. you open the door just enough for you to slip in and leave the crips, cold air behind.
don’t you like it though?
don’t you like when your cheeks start to loosen up? and when you shut the door and stillness soaked in warmth surrounds you?
Quiet Paragraphs 