winter

“Love is made in the wintertime,” he told me, pressing aching bones down into the snow white sheets. Our bodies and joints creaked in harmony, echoing the abandoned playground swing Swaying along in the forceful wind, and I could almost see b r e a t h materialize in the air between us. We were the kind of white hot cold that stabs relentlessly in the frigidity, the shatter of an icicle against the prickly pavement. I can still taste his first snowflake upon my tongue. His was a passion that started out green, But faded to that of the deep red of Fallen autumn leaves. . Maybe that’s why Winter is his favorite season.