I see no Summer

My fingers wrap themselves around the hot mug of tea

They are white and stiff; no blood circulates to my extremities on this harsh morning

I hold the mug tightly to warm my frozen hands

The warmth is nice, although it does burn slightly

I bring my face closer to the surface of the water, allowing the peppermint-scented steam to warm my cold cheeks, noticing specks of the dark tealeaves settling on the bottom on the mug.

I scuttle forward on my knees closer to the open-fire, trying not to spill the scorching tea as it undulates, temping the edges of the mug

I become too intimate with the violent red flames though

The radiant heat threatens to melt the fabric of my nylon pants into the skin of my pale legs

But my back is still icy cold

Where I am, it is not Summer

It is Winter, in fact



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