I'm only happy when it's grey.

I couldn't sleep last night.

It was him sleeping on a separate air matress, that felt continents apart, to accommodate the almost 6-year-old who wanted to sleep between us.

It was the frigid, but welcomed, breeze whispering its way through the open window. Because how could I tell it no after days of sweltering heat?

It was the way my left hip kept sticking to the plastic, air-filled bed even as every other part of me was covered in goosebumps. How do you sweat while you're freezing, I wondered more than once last night.

It was the now nearly empty house, the creaks and groans amplified against the bare walls and cold floors.

So, when I woke this morning, after a fitful sleep, to a blanket of grey, my heart felt comforted.


The sky felt just like me--a little gloomy. Grey. Inclined to move slowly. 

Some people love sunny days. They throw on the least amount of clothes as is considered legally decent and bask in the glow of that glorious star. They drive with their tops down (cars, and maybe clothing--no shame), and live for summer.

Not me.

I want wicked witch clouds and the boom of thunder. I want the drip-drip-drop of rain falling (I loved that part in BAMBI). I love a good chill in the air, a fire in the pit, and a comfy blanket on my lap. I love the way I feel when I'm wrapped in his arms or a cardigan (or both if I am lucky), and the way smoke curls become graceful dancing tendrils against a slate sky. 

I am not a child of the sun. I never have been. Not in the way I see others loving it.

I don't need sunshine.

I need melancholy.

I want grey.