Sleep covered her body, but she opened her eyes, no longer able to keep them closed. The Sun was dripping in through the window and she lapped up its afternoon warmth. Her cheeks were a bit crusty from the tears but they were dry.

Love was what made the world turn.

A lack of it was something we can live with, but to be tempted constantly, a warm feather twirling around the cold heart, is something no one can bare. Just as your heart begins to thore, the feather is blown away on a gust of wind. The heart is left wanting, dreaming…with only a memory.

Love is a cruel puppetmaster, dragging along so many willing (and some unwilling) souls in his wake. The warmth of his touch forever lingering on my lips.

The sun can have him warmth. Her ice-cold heart can take no more.