Children of Hera are 7am.
they're a crisp breeze in autumn and a warm one in spring.
they're handwritten notes in lunch boxes, texts that just ask you are.
they're making cinnamon rolls from scratch and eating vanilla ice cream on the side.
they're circus mirrors that never quite show what you're expecting or what you want.
they're prolonged eye contact and perfume that smells like honey.
they're sleeping soundly through the night.
Love from a child of Hera is passionate, and sweet, and never on your terms.
