Winter on July, Summer on January.

While we sit right here, in this park bench, in this small town, we wait for something to happen. Won't be snow, because we're in the middle of the summer and it certainly won't be something riveting. We wait for something to come, like glitter falling from the sky, like flowers growing from the sun. We wait for a stutterer to read us Shakespeare, we wait for a "Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer". And thats it, we wait for the summer. Even if it's 27C in this park, we wait for the summer to come to our hearts. Because several moths back, we got cold during January, during February and is still cold on July. Because my heart can feel the snow, even when my hands can touch the grass, because my eyes see white, even when you hold my hand.

Because I'm still waiting for you, to be my sun.