maria:

There are lights on in the window,

though they don’t always burn like they used to.

It’s bitter, even though it's gold.

The light almost felt like film.

A thin layer of dust on a sepia toned memory.

One so precious you had to hold it close.

Somehow it’s warm here.

I suppose anywhere can be cozy if you know

it like I do.

A warm hand on a cold night.

I love you,

and I’ll always remember why.