Winterling

She asked me, with her doe eyes, to fetch her a glass of water. I squeezed her hand—of course I would! And sprung to my feet, so quickly in fact, my ears shrieked.

I trusted the grout of the tiled floor to lead me to the counter, where a leather apron-ed fellow was already pouring the water for me. He was quite pleased with his sixth sense and was not afraid to let it show.

What a nasty color of tile was all I thought as I leaned on the counter before looking back at my date.

Dark hair caressed her soft throat, sliding like black silk against her golden skin. She wore a leather jacket, something I myself had decided against before leaving for the coffee shop, so much for being twinsies. But it couldn’t be helped, the winter snuggled me, and wool was preferred. Even from afar she looked much younger than me, at the same time, her good looks distracted me long enough to keep me from damning mine.

The thud of the glass brought me back- I winked a nod at the barista, and strode to our couch. 

If it had been a winter past, maybe my heart would have skipped when she thanked me, her soft lips slipped open—lips I’d once have loved to kiss, when I would follow her home, ever the gentleman. She drank and I imagined what her cool mouth would feel against mine, more a curious thought than anything else.

I settled beside her. The faux leather creaked under me as my weight shifted the crisp foam into a pit that slid the girl closer. It wasn’t hard to tell, she was staring at me quite demandingly, so be it—she wanted a story, so I dug deep. I found one. A true one, no less—but some part of me regretted letting her trudge inside the fond memory.

My angel of snow, how she stood on you.

What was it that she was saying? Her impatient breath clouded frost while she panted, but all I could see was red. She asked loud—demands filling in any gap I intended for breath, choking my theatrics in the crib. I silenced her finally by grasping her thigh, and offered her a look that I borrowed through feelings for you—she blossomed red, and leaned against me.

Maybe it’s not the winter that leaves when spring steps forward, maybe I am the one who leaves, to finally live for once, to see all I have here in this life. Am I the unbidden guest—winter’s grasp o’ death? Maybe spring is my lone killer, and winter revives me with the memory of the only true thing that was—you.

I am losing it though, the memory of your heat,how your lips tasted, how your hugs maddened me with the realization of life’s brevity—how I wanted to stay there forever, on the platform, how any announcement was a knife-turn in my ribs, but I held on. How glad I was when the doors would not open, and the train slipped to a start, leaving you to stare at me with those relieved eyes..

But in the end, you are the one who left, and I long for the cold platform which left my toes frozen, and clung to my breath to keep it alive a little longer.

That jacket of yours, with the lined hood—fur that would tickle my scruffed face while I held you. It was a little too large, I recall, I slid my hands through the open front in mischief, and caressed your body.

The sun palmed her face like what it promised to melt, and gave her leather jacket a gleam under the pale sun, and shone its black light onto the innocent white ground.

Am I cruel? To try and find another? To pick up what shards the spring revealed under the melting snow, before snow would fall again? Somedays I think so. Who then is a better villain than oneself in the story of their own? I know just what images to recall, to paint my week blue.

My devil is tall, wool-clad and bent, all from carrying his weaponized thoughts, for hurling loaded grenades onto himself, leaving his flesh tattered and broken. One I like to kick from time to another, just to torment myself a little longer, I love life afterall.

Though unlike a fox, my artic coat is not white, even it is gray, stained—from trials and time.

How could I ever love someone without fault? A blank slate, so clean not even personality would stick to it. I could love you, we could nurture the hurts in one another. Your imperfections felt like life itself, and I have no desire to die.

She doesn’t have your smile, your auburn blazed curls, the magnet—my opposite, burrowed deep in her beating heart. One so strong I couldn’t help but lean in and kiss you. Now, when I do, my lips meet cool ones, peppered by the falling flakes drifting from the gray cloudscape—last winter’s, returning to haunt me ever more.

My magnet does not know where to pull, maybe you are forever gone, buried, like the metal puck in my heart, cooling my blood so it no longer hurts to pace the iced-over streets without you clinging to my arm, another pair of legs for me to lean on.

Some part of me hopes I won’t see you ever, lest I find your smile all but gone—the one you gave with a turn of your head, eyeing the floor, like you couldn’t bear to look at me a second more, or you would bubble over.

The metallic voice of the subway motioned us out the bucket, and we shuffled over the iced-streets, past performers so cold their gifted hands were stuffed in lined pockets. She slipped and had no choice but to bump into me. So I wrapped her close, my hand gripped her hip, sending warmth through her slim figure. She leaned against me, her face flushed, as we neared her place.

I kissed her hair, I couldn’t stomach more. When she met my stare, I looked away, pretending her face was too much, that of an angel—and it was, perfected. Your face melted my heart and the only thing to solidify it again was to pry my sight off you. To see your pearly whites through memories passed. Our little dance of avoidance.

I could picture you walking past, as I held her tight.

Your mime would say: You couldn’t wait any longer? You chose her?

You voiced a devilish resonance, with eyes suspiciously blue—mine.

Her door was black, and I thought—how fitting. No better color for the door leading to the lower levels of the hellscape that reigned my mind, before deciding she was not the one to relieve you off me. She opened the gate, and looked at me asking, and in all my longing I took her hand, and followed her in.

You can live on. I have decided—in the burrows of my mind. Resting under puffed soil, with a single white flower waving in the blizzardous wind. One telling me where you sleep, so I won’t disturb you. Maybe you can stay there, until I grow mad, and can’t tell the difference between has-beens and the coming of winter.

Will you wait there for me, until your lips curl at my mindless demand?