The winter of my content

I prefer the cold weather. Can't say I love it, but it's comfortable to me.

I am almost content in wintertime.

I get to wear heavy coats. Slip under heavy blankets.

It's nice to be so surrounded by cloth. Shrouded. Hugged.

No one ever hugs me, and I accept comfort from cloth.

My body gets warm in the winter.

Suppose it is fair, since my soul isn't touched by warmth.

Ever.

I never get warm inside.

Perpetually cold within.

Perennially chilled.

Everlastingly gelid.

Lacking life, although not totally numb

For I feel…

I feel pain

and sorrow

and woe

and grief.

Bereft and deprived

Abandoned and hollow.

Summer never agrees with me.

It reminds me of burn, of stifling and suffocating.

It breaks sweats, and it brings on the heat.

The heat as pressure, as discomfort.

I know other people love summertime.

The scantily clad, the carefree, the not-me.

Not me at all.

For my name is Severus, meaning strict, serious.

No, summer does not agree with me.

I am not a man for all seasons.

I knew one of such once.

But I had to kill him.

It was such a smothering, oppressively hot night.

Yet I shivered.

No warmth inside, as always.

No matter how hot the day is, I'm eternally icy blue.

Frosty, glacial, arctic.

A solitary rock in a weathered shore.

Away from people, away from love.

So my life goes

Day after day after day after day.

I should be used to it by now.

I had a chance and blew it.

Now I'm haunted.

Damnation walks towards me

Sealing my doom

Taunting me with the color of love

For after all, love is green

In bright green eyes.

Which will never shine for me.