My version of winter has always been flawed. It is controlled by the fall of snow and the exact amount of the ground it covers. It never ever covers the tiny little patch in the garden, right near the broken tin roofed shed. I suppose that is why I just like the idea of snow. But I do not love it.
(Realisation: I suppose that little corner represents the only part of me that even I cannot love.)
I met a girl with candle lit wolf eyes and a strong, warm lion heart, who tells me Sea God stories before disappearing into a cold, cold winter's morning, fog cloaking her very essence.
(Addendum: Sometimes I think of five a.m. coffee, and wonder if your smile didn't hold all of winter's warmth in it, whether I would still be liking the idea of it.)
She lights candles and turns my room into a place of sanctity and prayer often. It makes the love making ironic in a way, I suppose. But nothing she ever does fails to intrigue the very fabric that my cotton soul is made of.
(Observation: Her body is my temple, her hands my place of prayer. She treats me like a high priest, sometimes her king, and sometimes...as nothing at all.)
On a day when I was breaking into pieces of me, she took my hands, and promised me a forever made of windows of snow, winter and candles, the kind of winter candles that never ever die out when placed on windowsills.
I looked into her eyes and explained to her how forever was winter proof, that candles die, oh and just so she knew, "Minds like mine are glasshouses that can defeat even the most beautiful of snowstorms."
(Apologies: I am going to give you a bat, my darling. Here is my glasshouse.
Now then. Start smashing.)
