When I say I enjoy the cold, I do not mean the snow. I meant the kind of cold where you can see your breath as you walk in between streets. The kind of cold where you don’t feel cold because your body is so hot it’s steaming. The kind of cold that cools you down when you drink your iced mocha with oat milk.
Not this cold. The cold where you lay down on your bed and it sinks into you. No matter how many layers of blankets you stack, the cold just penetrates deeper and deeper. It invades you, and grips you. It whispers into your ear and proclaims, “You’re mine.”