You’re walking home through the heart of downtown. It’s the middle of winter. The clouds of your breath lead your way home, as do the warm lights floating beneath the sky like fireflies finding their families. Everything is blue, but nothing is dark.

You come home to a living room covered in gold and the deepest brown, emitting the same warmth as the arms of your lover. It’s your first holiday season spent together. They made you a dark hot chocolate. They just finished making it. The timing worked out.

You’re older now. The timing always works out.

Alike the two of you, one of you fits the winter scenery alike the hue of snowcapped gates, and the other falls through the copper mailer like an old love letter. Anything gentler than mocha brown can exist, as long as it is pre-existing with it.