this time of year

this time of year always makes me think of you. which seems odd. the seasons were out of joint there. in december, finally, our breath could be seen. its the cold, the mild cold, which reminds me of you. and i always think of standing there. you in your long black jacket. your scarf of cut fabric - a nice attempt, but too itchy really, to presume to wrap around your neck. your shoes that made a clacking noise as you shuffled back and forth, adult shoes. for two people feigning adult. we were young then. and you kissed me sweetly and held me close against your chest, wrapping your coat around my body. i stood on your shoes, and performed the function of a scarf much better than that fabric - really.

and we longed for spring. for life after death, and the joy it promised.

but i left.

you let me go, and i resented that.

the winter destroyed me, it was really winter there. it wasnt winter where you were, and maybe thats why you survived, or maybe you were always stronger (you had the long black jacket after all). and when spring came i experienced the joy of life, but i missed you. the rebirth was half birth. i delighted, but i wanted you there too. i wanted, more than anything, to experience spring with you.

in the heat of the summer we lost ourselves. the more penetrating the heat, the further the distance grew. until we broke in the early autumn. and tried again, clinging to each other against the cold. but the self-inflamed heat our bodies made couldn't keep the cold out. billowing drafts of frigid air. and then we broke - we really broke.

and i lamented the prospect of another spring without you.

i never had a spring with you.

when i walk home at night, its dark and cold, and i hug my arms around myself. the dull glow of the lamps are the same. i see my breath. and i think of you. this time of year always makes me think of you.