Given In.

I'm back.

One gust of wind sends my hair from the accidental void between collar and neck, craving body heat as they trail behind beaten. Another brush has my hands fitting mittens from the give of my waist, pulling at fabric so readily left unattended. A window-view morning couldn't prepare sleepy eyes forced wide, squinting in the solace of the darkness they had kept minutes before. Layers are closing in. More and more rapidly as time grabs the part of me inviting breath heats, more welcomed than any effort at wind resistance.

Begging strands of castoff curls kiss ears and an unsound mind; a constant reminder that my skin is staying cold. Still exposed, vulnerable to every bit of battering natural breath can carry to a microscopic solitude. Not completely unwanted; neither sought for nor evaded. I could build an army, a circle of walls, and swear off this sole responsibility, but I leave my arms at my sides knowing that focusing on surroundings means a crumbling foundation, a leaking roof. I'd find myself left for elements, my inside out umbrella helpless to newborn raindrops finding home in increasingly damp hair. Twisting and fighting to swear off sickness like my logic around rectangular worries. You'll catch cold if you go out like that. Well I don't think I care.

Drop some yellow over my waves and call me fit for a blizzard. These are the things in life that I can control, like the textures I run my fingers through and the holes in my baby blankets. Things that should be shelved when the comfort is historically outgrown. I lower my face as bravery runs by in a t-shirt and shorts; I take my time. I've grown out of rushing as segments of days run together for most; you don't remember the colors on long-haired temptation and fair weather friends as you set your mind towards seven hours away from what will be a ten difference day. Circle left corner of your mouth, the buttons on your shirt, and one pair of shoes. Circle nothing of my attire. Again this control is one guaranteed multiple choice answer.

Paste on the muted textile and cover modesty and insecurity. This water could turn to ice at the turn of your memory. Will I be the one left doorstepping, surrounded by silence and closing walls without explanation? One word to silence my speculating strands. Tide me over with a mail-in picture of burning wood. I stop and look up; my halting sends soldiers colliding in their warpath footsteps. I'll be the first to shake this monotony. If only you let curiosity get the best of your unoccupied, frigid hands. I won't stop my eyes as I fall back and let this current take me through the convolution of lowering. This overprocessed mind can follow close behind; elude at will.

Do you know how to lose your mind?