Thoughts.

It's Cold

It's cold.
The frostbitten lips of winter kiss me tenderly. The fingers of the trees caress the grey skies that behold ancient, forgotten memories. And I remember through the fog and snow, through the whispers of the last remaining leaves, through the dense midnights, that -
It's cold.
Hot chocolate's vapor grazes my chin and I slowly circle the liquid, watching the wind paste snowflakes on the windows covered in frost. Camouflage doesn't mean anything anymore. The bartender remembers my order: tea of Amelié with only a teaspoon of honey. I sit next to the window and I attempt to write poetry, for I am a poor translator of emotions. If only they knew that -
It's cold.
I count how many footsteps crunch the snow as earphones sing winter lullabies, tasting the fog filled with charred coal and wood. I stroke the wool of my mittens and release another warm breath of vapor and watch it unite with the smog above that is illuminated by the moonlight. Every breath is mercy. It reminds me of winter's chilled lips that -
It's cold.
Hold me, dear winter. I am giving away again as I place bare feet in the coldest of streams. I watch them freeze, turn blue, crusts of ice form on the toes. It's numb, cold, but the sensation is all too familiar to me. The water is violent, bitter, angry. People aren't allowed to bathe in it all year round. Sometimes we all need to rest, need to sleep. I sometimes wonder if -
It's cold.
All of our hearts are frozen and if we cry, those tears transform into chips of ice. What is it that freezes us within, that slows us down, that quenches the flame of our beings? What is it that distances two lovers, friends, siblings? Why is it we are all alone and all we have is the winter as company?
And all we can do is think.
That we can't warm ourselves.
That we are lost in blisters and bruises.
That we are false lovers of cold for there is a complaint that forms on the tip of our tongues whenever we are with it:
"It's cold.
It's cold."
And all we think of is cold
For deep down we are frozen and empty.
So...
It's cold.
Yes.
It's cold.