I lay in bed last night, sleep seemingly impossible, and these were the only things I could think of;
I long for a day when the cold outside is blasted from my bones by the warmth inside.
I long for an languid arm drapped over my stomach.
I long for Sundays the way I used to know them. Hours of nothingness spread out on a carpet, covered in print, and slow, lazy, drunkeness gradually filling my head.
I long for Winter’s starkness to be punctuated by a festive glow.
