Winter is coming.

Winter is coming,

I can feel it in my bones—

That definite chill

That clings to the air

And the ominous disappearance

Of the blue, blue sky.

Mornings are cold,

So much chillier

Than before.

The frigid air that wraps

Around the blanket cocoon

That keeps me warm

In the safety

Of the dreamscape

Where summer still exists.

I dread the early mornings

The same one every day

That is no different

But for the time of the year

And the sun

Yet to rise.

I wake up every morning

And sigh that heavy sigh

Wishing the summer

That had left

With all its

Horrid,

Inescapable heat,

Would come back

And warm my bones again

In a way that hot cocoa

Only achieves

For the space of twenty minutes.

Sometimes I just pretend

That autumn is still here

That it isn’t just an imagined phase

Of seasons

That this year chose

To skip over

And throw me into

The depths of winter

And its chilly hell.

There is an unidentifiable itch

At the back of my throat

Coupled with the later

Morning

Wake ups

And the constant need to

Moisten

The dry fields

Of parched land

At the back of my throat.

I sigh and think

With a heavy reluctance

Reaching for that

Soothing

Miracle—

The cough drop—

That maybe,

Just maybe,

I should accept

The chill that clings to my bones,

The midnight mornings,

And hot cups of comforting cocoa,

And maybe, just maybe

Winter is here.

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