I would prefer a soaking, drizzling day. Rain spattered windows, instead of sunshine rays leaking through wispy clouds. The gentle patter of rain, rather than a wafting warm breeze. Holed up with piping hot coffee, rich in bitterness and steam, that warms cold, unmoving limbs and makes coco brown eyes glow luminescent in the shadows. Sinking delightfully into a grandma-blanket ridden couch, scarred with scorched cigarette burns from a thousand burning lips and ashes scattered a million miles across stained and blemished denim fabric.
I would prefer the soft scent of parchment tickling my nose, turning pages of my favorite novel, leaving my fingertips raw with tiny, stinging paper cuts, hot blood bubbling, leaving red dots of myself, in the very book that hold a miniscule part of my soul.
I would prefer the gentle murmur of lovers in the night, whispering declarations of false love. The quiet roar of ocean waves lapping softly on ancient sand grains, the smell of sea salt water in the air. A driftwood fire, filled with vivid blues and sea-foam greens, licking politely at damp wood, smoking rolling quietly into the unspoiled air. Silvery memories blowing through ears, whispering of the past and what could have been.