tiny hands and howling at the moon
They come, with a storm on a string. Bringing all of the best, and sometimes worst, emotions. Ushering in a collection of wonders for each mediocre thing.
Painting colors across icy hearts. Filling a dark world with brilliance and sound. How I love the chaos, and despair in the silence. They run, they scream, they howl at the moon.
Oh, the joys of childhood.
So, I follow. I see the new technicolor world and hear the song of the trees. I hold tiny hands in my own. I run, I scream, I howl at the moon.
When did they birth this change in me?