Random Thoughts marching on

It is a cold winter night in the rocky mountains. Living here has not changed the impact of he frigid winds mother nature so calmly blows between her warm lips. I cannot decide where to lay my head in between his arms, near the fireplace or on the space of floor looking up at my ceiling that reveals the beauty of the night sky from my skylights. It is a new story inked on the same paper yet a fresh page, nothing really changes. Just like the cycle of cold winds; the song and dance of love, change and harmony plays in and out of tune, depending on the writer the lyrics will complement or deny the rhythm.

SO here I am still pondering him or the floor, how classical will the melody be is this an enduring score? How many have said that they enjoyed the masterpiece without seeing the art of the details, how keen is his eye. Gently and warm he sleeps and inside my spirit weeps unable to afford another tear in the fabric of the peace this woman keeps, so at a distance I shall keep them away but in my bed he sleeps and one arm reaches for the floor and the other around his waist it keeps.

And I yearn for the frigid night for it is all that I know but the melody has changed and the story becomes warm and now I turn to close the window to keep the whisper of the rigid night at bay. In what was once my bed we now lay and we write new lines on the same paper of the same story but a different page worn, weathered and frayed. My eyes unable to keep sharp like the thoughts racing swiftly in my mind, I pull my tired body between the love and comfort of his thighs destined to write new lines.