Old letters and trinkets in a box. I find myself storing away the past. But I like to hold onto things. I like to look at them from time to time. Feel the paper and the ink, the rose gold chain and pink stone. I sit at my desk and stare at my wall. It's papered with a wrinkled map and botanical prints now. Remember that time when everything was warm?
I climbed to the top of a peak yesterday. I looked down through the trees and wandered three hundred sixty degrees. The sun was out, but the wind whipped at my bangs. My bangs. "Why did you cut your hair?" they ask.
Today is a new day, as will be tomorrow and the day after that. I make my way up a new peak. It is still cold and I can feel the numbness running through my fingers and toes. It makes its way to my core. But the sun is rising and its beams stretch through the trees. Soon it will be warm again. The sun will rise and everything will be warm again.