Gloworm

 It's the last rays of orange, red, and yellow straining, fighting to reach the farthest corner of the shadows that slowly and greedily swallow the last radiant shards of synchronized imperfection. It's the way they passively cede to the silence without hesitation, without resistance. It's finding oneself surrounded by Time sloshing back and forth, folding inside and out of itself; pierced violently by the sharpest of memories, by the most vivid, violent, and ecstatic feelings that well up to the porous surface, pressuring for an explosive release. It's the miserably-chilly mists that bite at my nose and hoarse and raw your throat. It's the hope that it will all happen again. It's the jubilation of bells, and the soft, cold white fluff caught softly by black velvet. It's the crisp crunch of leaves and the bright glow of porch lights and the dim, dancing glow through orange, listless eyes. It's huddled tightly together under the quilt; quiet, rhythmic breathing fading in and out of the silence. It's wrapped up in a menagerie of dreams. 

This is what it's all about. 

This is my perfection.

 Hmm, yeah. It's a lot like that.