When winter was first giving signs of its arrival, it was already staining my soul with bitterness, so one day I got home and I fell on bed letting that freezing cold embrace the sour of my heart.
I wasn't quite feeling like pushing up the blankets and sleeping, instead I removed my arms from my jacket and pressed them over my chest, the very instinctive act to hold the heat around my vital organs.
But I didn't feel the usual warmth we desperately try to hold as it dies, but instead my body seemed to produce it in a feroucious way, a burning heat emanating from me. Not really metaphorical, I felt it on my forearms. I don't know if the, huh, acoustic of my jacket allowed me to retain the heat this efficiently, but my body was working like a fueled oven, so I decided to let the burning heat embrace the sour of my heart.
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