Under the sheets of my bed...

I have found that time was like rain, glittering as it fell, changing the world, but something that could also be taken for granted. Until you loved another. Then time became gold in a miser's hands, every bright year counted out carefully, infinitely precious, and each one slipping through your fingers. Because people don't know how warm you are and how warm they are with you, not until they're cold. People think a bonfire is something they can build anywhere. It's not. It takes wood, an open space, ideally stars in the sky. They can't fabricate that. They don't know how warm you are until they're cold. They don't know you're a star until you're not there.