It’s cold outside—

the kind of cold that begs for blankets

and bodies.

The fire's going,

but it’s the thought of skin

that keeps me warm.

I wear silk, satin or leather under this hoodie.

Just for me.

Just in case.

My thighs remember being held,

my lips remember being claimed—

and they wait,

soft and parted, like an inviting cup of hot chocolate.

The nights are longer now.

So I dance in the kitchen,

kiss my own shoulders in the mirror,

and when I can, sleep naked under layers

like a secret

waiting to be unwrapped.

I’m not rushing the next touch,

but when it comes—

it’ll find a woman already smouldering,

already soft, already full.

Let winter come.

My blood is still hot.