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Weeks. Week. Weak.

The sunrise this morning was beautiful, different. Rather than its normal bubblegum ice cream hue, it was the color of coffee with too much creamer. French Vanilla.

I sat on top of the kitchen table and slowly watched the sun come up, steam coming from my mug, re-reading The Fault In Our Stars with my red throw blanket like a cape, wrapped around me and hooding my head.

I just thought that if maybe I gave you this play by play you'd feel like you were here.
That is, if you still wanted to be here.
Inside here, the house and me.
Deep.

7:35 a.m. - 2013-01-27

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