Soft sweaters and long taupe skirts,

Eyes the warm brown-gold of honey.

Her home is filled with candles; sky high, low and smooth, burnt vermillion to deep crimson and bright as constellations. 

Fire burns fierce as it does steady. 

She has few friends but is always there for lost ones,

who come knocking at her door.

Sometimes sweet turns bitter; 

when each passing day marks you being a little more faded, state of being a bit closer to forgotten.

But still, she smiles. 

A hearth is a resting place, always present for travellers in need.