It's snowing.

He glances furtively right, left, right again.

There's no one to see, no one to know.

The leaves of the elm would be his roof again, the cold metal of the park bench a substitute for the warm woolen sheets of a four poster.

All the while oblivious to the hearth that was his, ever burning, awaiting his return.

Why?

I would ask for one more gift, that I will always turn the other cheek.

Light me up. The brightest constellation fades into the murky depths when she prances through the very fabric of my mind. Thin, torn and tattered as it is, with every step she leaves her imperishable mark.

Becoming the history that defines me.

Stay happy, even if its for one more day.