In the beginning, we saw each other nearly every day. We travel next to each other upon the train, drank wine out of the same bottle on the back seats of the bus on our way into the night. We smoke our cigarettes over coffee and the hushed cafe customers as we screamed in the city streets.
We would confess secrets over the roaring rain and smile through smoke screens in the early hours in the morning. We were inseparable, and they all knew it.
But the good things never last forever, and as the seasons began to cool I knew you would soon move to warmer climates. You were missing for months but occasionally called or visited, make small talk and tell me about your travels. Generally, it was an occasional link sent through messenger or a tacky gift store postcard that had gotten lost in-between the piles of mail that sat unsorted in stacks around the house.
You came back when the weather started too warm again, but winter had taken its toll on us, and now we are frozen still. Well, I am. I was always a morning winter child, and you remind me so much of a summers afternoon that it’s only reasonable that there is a distance.
We still drink our coffees and smoke our cigarettes and confess our secrets but it is strained. Things have become different. Muted, I suppose. I don’t know if you have noticed the change. I don’t know if you really care at all, but I sit and wait in hopes of bursts of blooming flowers pushing through the thick coat of snow that had blanketed my body before you came back. Winter is not over for me, and I so long for warmer weather; to burn in the mid-day sun and wade through the muggy nights until we watch the light peak above the horizon with laughter in my eyes. But the climate refuses to warm for me, and my skin remains iced cold, and you don’t seem to be able to stop the bloom.
I am melting in your presence.
Maybe I should move to a colder climate.