It was freezing this morning, and for whatever reason, it had me thinking about New York. And how it snowed in Central Park, such a brilliant white. I almost fell numerous times, and tree branches sparkled in the morning mist. Up and down the avenues we ventured, our breath dissolving before us. It took everything in me not to start a snowball fight with you – a spontaneous burst, like fallen stars and angel aura quartz. Clusters of flakes beneath Christmas trees of December 26. The paths were carved with flannel footprints and ice kisses. A piano playing softly when you took me into the Trump Building. And we scarfed down turkey burgers and ate so many sweet potato fries. And I couldn’t help but think what a sweet memory this would make someday.
Stunned by rabid wolves and deafening howls that even the purple moon succumbs to a crescent. Frosted trees once enchanted by glistening flakes from heaven are now withering into wiry branches that cascade over opaline ground. The crunch of burning and bountiful leaves. Overgrown gardens of Eden and overcrowded closets to Narnia. Ripped t-shirt pockets and black hole hangers.
I wonder if he reminisces about that old-fashioned fireplace, made of stones and warmth, that smelled of forgotten forests and stoic pine trees. Does he still taste white chocolate whenever he smells the faint scent of caffeine? Does he know how his eyes shined as he rested his feet atop the lacquered benches, and how much I was falling for him amidst the snow and shadows?