It was a feverishly cold, late December evening nipping at my fingertips from where I stood outside on the balcony of my apartment where we used to meet when you climbed down from your window and sat on the edge of mine. If I closed my eyes tight enough, I could still hear you laughing at my behalf when I refused to wear a jacket only to end up with my hands cracked thanks to the blustery evening and complaining the whole damn time. I was never one for winter, cursing the snow and the christmas lights with a scrooge heart on my sleeve. Albeit I still sat out there to talk to you until we were too cold and I inevitably invited you in for a cup of chamomile tea with your favorite scones on the side you'd devour without a second to waste. You'd always apologize for scarfing them down which would always cause me to push the wipe the crumbs from the corners of your mouth and admire your eagerness; and shamelessly notice the freckles that loitered the bridge of your nose and your almond eyes that accompanied them. I wish we could stay just like that forever: in a portrait above someone's mantle like a painting by a dead, French artist that decorated the room nicely; endlessly in each other's gaze.
