My heart is a cold, abandoned house. Its windows boarded, its books gathering dust. I visit it from time to time to know it's still there in need of repair if I can manage it. Far away things always want attention. But the house sits quietly in the cold Waiting. When I come by to dust the books and wipe the windows and read a few pages by a fire kindled with forgotten scraps, I'm warm again. I'm home. It would be nice, I think, if I lived here. If I cleaned and cleaned, I could even have guests. They could even stay a while. I would feed them from the love grown in the garden, baked in the kitchen, of my bright little home. Those are dreams, I tell myself. The task is too great. And I'm needed elsewhere. Always. So I cherish the warm fires of my visits Because it may be a cold abandoned house But it is mine.

the bad part about losing weight is feeling colder.

A deficit of love will result in destructive tendencies Note to self, don’t buy pressure cookers from macy’s I don’t need a relationship to make me happy I just need it not to make me unhappy.