Winter in the early hours.

This evening, or perhaps it is early morning now (I had no clocks to consult and the moon is obscured through the window), I have been reaching for the stars as if they would allow my fingers to scrape their toes. All my wanting, it seems, is unattainable and obscured by a vast distance. It's as if you leave kisses of orange light to remind me of you in the skyline. They don't ever disappear fully. Not even in the dead of night. The night's fingers drag long nails down my shoulders, red marks stretching to the small of my back, soothing me to sleep in your absence. I've left the heater on. The gum trees wave like they have secrets to tell, but whisper amongst themselves, dragging long, chattering tongues against the iron of my roof. And the creaking of the walls calls out to me, warning me against their idle gossip. The stirring structure purrs of it's stability, and speaks a few audible words within its ache: "Walls only ever move in close enough to hold you."