I Told You I Loved Snow

I.

I told you I loved snow. You looked at me like I was nuts and said nothing.

I wish I could have said more, as the old cliche goes, but it just didn’t come out. You didn’t seem very receptive to what I would have, could have said anyway. Sometimes you do sometimes you don’t. And of course, like any good Murphy’s Law-in-action, when you are open I can think of nothing.

Not like I ever really can think of anything. I just feel it. I feel it a lot. All of the time. It’s just that sometimes its gets closer to the surface.

Our worlds have collided, I think. And not so gracefully. They continue to fall in and out of one another. One day we’re on the same page, the same key, so close it’s scary, and the next it’s quite the opposite. Like on the day it snowed. We tried (or at least I did), but it wasn’t there. Something inside me said it never was, but then I felt that, actually, we were two lost soul sisters, having been forever joined, now suddenly a wall has been painfully thrust between us. Sometimes I think that wall must be a part of myself. Or maybe a part of yourself. Maybe both.

And it’s only on rare and beautiful days that both our walls are down.
I miss those days.
They seem less and less.

I turn away and looked down, the focus of my eyes quickly shifting from you to the soft white snowflakes slowly accumulating on the pavement. It’s a pretty sight.

But it pales in comparison to that from which my eyes just diverted.

II.

I told you I loved snow. You smiled sweetly and leaned toward me, and then I felt your cold wet lips against my own. A single snowflake landed in the small space where we met. I shivered- but not from the cold- and fell deeper into you.

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