❄️

I've lived somewhere hot for years now, but I still remember the snow. I crave it. It pulls at me constantly, with a bone deep longing that makes me want to sob until the tears erode tracks in my face, until my whole existence becomes nothing but the emptiness. But at least that'd be something. Being ever empty is better than being never all the way full.

If you've ever laid in a snowbank you know the way it lulls you. It muffles everything. Making life quiet. Above you an endless blue, to either side only a dark white, and below? It molds to your body, hardening and packing into the perfect mattress, holding you with a security that usually only lovers can give.

If you lay there long enough it even starts to feel warm. Your eyes get droopy even if you were hyper leaving the house, and the chore of getting up and wading back through the plush white abyss not ever seeming worth it.

I've fallen asleep like that more times than I can count. Even feeling the cold biting at me gently, or whipping harshly depending on the day, I never could resist it. Even though I knew the risks. Of getting buried there, suffocating. Even with the guilt. Each time it feels so loving I could cry- I think I did a few times when the yearning got too much.