Fat sparrows. Beef gnocchi. Japanese teacups. I think I am slowly running out of words and fairy dust because time stopped sometime in November. It must have restarted again because brown is my color for winter, lingering between Christmas chocolates and the woody texture of a December forest. Some things have quietly changed, but I hope my organs are still in the same place. There is nothing quite like a broken heart to rearrange your skeleton. I can't even scrub the smell of oranges from my wind-chapped fingers anymore. Been holed up like a squirrel reading books and fussing over symmetry and squares with cold hands and cold feet. Still, it feels good to be home.
