Cold comes again after a brief respite, hints of early
spring sprinkled into our frost-bitten world like salt. This sense of reprieve
after months of snow and chill, his end game we engage in each time of year, waiting
for love to bloom again after it vanished under sheets of ice we scale over
even as it grows thin, the throb of something still living alone in the dark
waters beneath, a memory recalled at thit time of year to stir blood back not our
weary limbs, the kiss, the touch, the scent of sweet perfume, there, but not
there, a lingering spirit on the edge of periphery, vanishing each time we
bring our attention to it, like smoke we stoke up and then try desperately to grasp,
oozing from between our fingers to vanish again, the cold that clings to us as
we stumble towards the sweetness of spring, needing to feel warm again.
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