Warmth
Warmth rests on the book. My fingertips touch it, and I don't turn the page. The morning's cold I leave outside the window, and this small warmth announces the start of today.
Warmth rests on the book. My fingertips touch it, and I don't turn the page. The morning's cold I leave outside the window, and this small warmth announces the start of today.
Before the warmth left on my fingertips could fade, I wrapped both hands around the teacup.
I was watching the steam cling to the rim of the teacup and vanish. Beside it, I laid one front paw over the other.
Outside the window, the snow that fell all last night still hasn't melted. Between the warmth of the room and the winter outside, I find myself standing a long while at that boundary.
Sitting on the windowsill, I keep watch over that boundary. The place where sunlight touches the snow is widening little by little.
I watched the morning frost left on the window frame turn to droplets as the sun rose. While those drops ran down the sliding pane, I was cupping a teacup in both hands. Where that warmth went, it still lingers in my palms even now.
I walk to the window, following the trail where the drops on the frame ran down the sliding pane. The dampness the frost left there still clings to my fingertips.