Pushing through the winter snow, my hand finds yours. The palm of your finger-less glove curtails the blood rushing to my heart, like an afternoon ruined with an unsavory air. Like the snow beguiled by the dirt trudged through, you charmed your way into seeing this orchestra with me. Upon arriving and finding our seats, a meek priest promises us a full evening of remembrance and recognition. Of hard work and toil. Of tables, and chairs saddled by their patrons- of a haunted house. The furniture laments its previous tenants. It yearns for it, he explains. A gentle voice lilts the audience, and flitters around like a bird as memories come rushing past, every syllable pumping out each and every powerful vignette into the bloodstream only to ebb into quick reflection and flow back more intense.
And then nothing.
I look over at you, and I realize that this orchestra plays for us. I tried typing to you from below your apartment, but my fingers would rarely hit their mark. Holding you in the snow, I felt my shuddering rib cage was somehow stabilized by yours; the freezing guilt I felt when you looked at me with frustrated eyes. Your lips being the gateway to the most passionate bleeding animal I have ever seen. I am distracted by the strings, which roll over the hills as if it were a morning sunrise, but never will it alight the same way as your smile. Your warmth. I feel utterly shocked with hope when I look into your snow-covered eyelashes, trying profusely, but ever in vain to take the focal point away from the most beautiful thing I have EVER seen. The priest is quiet now. I am, in a word, excited. So excited, that when I wake, and realize you're a ghost of what is to come: I am filled with glee at the prospect of experiencing it all- I thank God that it's all in front of me.
