It is not that I cannot love again, that I do not dream of being once more swarmed by the deafening, strangling, muting that is the heart's beating on the door of vulnerability. It is merely that I have fallen ever so precariously, accidentally, sublimely in love with myself. Narcissistic, smug, vain? I look away from these accusations, but not in shame. For I have built a home within my very bones and if you dare to wish to enter then you must be faced to brave the darkest corners of my winter. Never shall I forget how cold it happens to get when this season brings anew more days that swallow me whole, but I also shall remember that it is I who warms the embers and lights my soul a-fire once more.