Winter afternoons can be mellow. They can be pensive. At times, downright melancholic. They are sepia tinted when wrapped in memories. They are kaleidoscopic in vibrant hues, at times. They are winding and lethargic, slowly ambling their way across the cityscape, flooding the streets in a blur of sunshine and smoke. They can be joyous, sure, with just the right amount of chill in the air that makes you want to get up and out on the road. Makes you want to be a traveler and a lover. A gypsy, a vagabond. It makes you want to be a voyeur. As you make your way, merging in the crowd. Unseen, unknown. A voyeur in love with love itself.
Winter afternoons are about being a recluse. Where you just want to shut yourself in.
Winter afternoons are about coffee. Or tea. Or wine. Cheap whiskey, if you will. About your favourite nook and curling up with that book you have been meaning to read. They are about soft caresses and endless laughter sweeping through the sanctity of your bedroom. Your sanctuary. Your own little space that is tucked away from the world and which is bathed in the glorious sunlight that filters through the window, creeping past the curtains, nestling against your skin. Skin so warm and eager for love. Sunlight that stretches and curls. Sunlight that offers and denies. Desire.