Winter Unwelcome
Winter is not welcome here. Go away winter. Go away cold. Go away wind. Go away chill. Go away memory.
It's really cold right now, and my toes gave up the fight a few hours ago. I need summer back. Because there is no warmth in winter. There is no heat. There is no relief.
It is back to sleeping in sweats. I miss having the other body to help warm me. To negate the need for clothes. It was decadent, frivolous to do so last winter. It was like throwing caution to the wind because I knew there would be heat under the sheets to soothe me to sleep. It would be crisp in the morning, and I would jump to the kitchen over the cold wood floors and stand near the kettle as he made his coffee. And his warmth was there too, wrapping itself around me like the blankets on the bed. There were fires and there was wine, and blankets in the cold room when we watched movies. There was sun sifting through the windows, through the sliding glass door, through the mutton-riddled front door. There was heat from the old metal radiator, steam lifted from the bath. It soaked through my skin and kept my inner status quo.
We could walk to the beach at midnight, and the warmth would follow us there. We looked at the stars, at the silhouettes of palm trees, with the heat slipped under our coats and the sand like silk on our feet.
This is the winter of my discontent. Of my fully-clothed cold body left to shiver solo. Warmth must be carefully generated and saved before it slips away. It doesn't lie next to me anymore. I have to snatch it and hold it under the covers to silence the chatter of my teeth. It is gray. It is dark. It is wet and windy dreary. I will it to be April. Past the time of winter, past the time of memory.
Winter is not welcome here. Go away winter.
It's really cold right now, and my toes gave up the fight a few hours ago. I need summer back. Because there is no warmth in winter. There is no heat. There is no relief.
It is back to sleeping in sweats. I miss having the other body to help warm me. To negate the need for clothes. It was decadent, frivolous to do so last winter. It was like throwing caution to the wind because I knew there would be heat under the sheets to soothe me to sleep. It would be crisp in the morning, and I would jump to the kitchen over the cold wood floors and stand near the kettle as he made his coffee. And his warmth was there too, wrapping itself around me like the blankets on the bed. There were fires and there was wine, and blankets in the cold room when we watched movies. There was sun sifting through the windows, through the sliding glass door, through the mutton-riddled front door. There was heat from the old metal radiator, steam lifted from the bath. It soaked through my skin and kept my inner status quo.
We could walk to the beach at midnight, and the warmth would follow us there. We looked at the stars, at the silhouettes of palm trees, with the heat slipped under our coats and the sand like silk on our feet.
This is the winter of my discontent. Of my fully-clothed cold body left to shiver solo. Warmth must be carefully generated and saved before it slips away. It doesn't lie next to me anymore. I have to snatch it and hold it under the covers to silence the chatter of my teeth. It is gray. It is dark. It is wet and windy dreary. I will it to be April. Past the time of winter, past the time of memory.
Winter is not welcome here. Go away winter.
posted by Ocean | 10:20 PM
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