A girl in a red coat with the hood pulled over her eyes.

A little black dog and faded leopard print pajamas.
Is probably how I looked to someone watching.
(Not that anyone was)

Because for a January night,
The streets were awfully silent,
Deadened by fog hanging low in the sky.
Not that many people usually find themselves outside,
Alone on a January night.
But I thought I would mention,
There were few to be seen.

It was cold but not the biting kind.
It was the kind that you don’t notice,
At least not until you go back inside.
So I did not mind it much.
It was just enough, of course,
To turn my cheeks a generous pink,
And keep the slush from melting in the streets.

The world is a different place in the night.
A different place in the winter, too.
I know I was craving the sun,
And I know I was missing the summer.
And I knew that I would not find it tonight.

I walked anyways,
Because not walking is worse than, I guess,
Anything else I had to do.
And I was not going to walk far,
But I kept on walking.

It was the most curious thing,
More so than a girl in leopard pajamas and a red coat:
A dazzling string of lights, cutting across the night.
Overhanging an ice skating rink,
Half melted and uneven,
But beautiful and shining under the lights.
The strangest thing, at least,
For a small town like my own.
Sometimes I forget how unobservant I can be,
When I’m lost in my own world.

I sat on a bench,
(maybe it was for a hockey team)
And looked across the water.
It was blinding and perfect,
But not at all like the sun.
Maybe it was because I was alone,
Or because I knew no one was watching,
Or because I had not seen a beautiful thing,
(Or noticed a beautiful thing)
In such a long time.

My cheeks were cold and pink,
But then they were warm and wet.
(And still pink, I presume)
I did not know how sad I was.
And I did not know how sad I had been.

So I stayed there for a long time.
It was cold, and it was getting colder,
But I did not care much at all.
My dog whimpered after some time.
I like to think it was because she did not like to see me cry,
But I know she was just cold and tired and wanted to go home.

So I went home.
And the walk was cold,
But not the biting kind.
The kind you don’t notice until you go back inside.
And I was still kind of sad,
But it was the better kind of sad.
The sad that you are happy about,
Just because you know you are feeling again.
Like when the feeling returns to numb fingers.
It hurts at first.
But at least you can feel them again.

I still miss the sun.
I miss the warmth of summer.
But I don’t need it now.
It will return.
But for now,
There is comfort in January white.