July

A dull mist settles upon your arrival - a damp fog. A cold so callace it seeps beneath my bones, aching to take root in my very sinew. 
A change in the wind; This time, my strength grows taller. I learn now, what grows from you may have once been beautiful, but like the moss of the willow it grew toxic, suffocating. 
I prefer to breathe. - n.s.h