Circling

That winter when the snow didn't seem to stop. Pushing from the sky and concealing the ground in layers, we had each other. You can't mistake the sound of winter. The not quiet silence of the wind. The ice on your breath. It would take its time. Making us miss the sweltering days of August. Where the dampness would settle invisibly. The pressure on your skin.

That's the thing, we were always missing something that was and waiting for something to be again. Each time, more of what was and less of what will be.

I turn the corner, hear the grinding sound of tires on snow. Lose the tread, and swerve right before going back straight. We were gliding and laughing, hiding our misery, for a minute. Maybe the car was telling us something we didn't yet know.

Eventually, winter would pass. I blinked to a lazy Sunday by the river listening to waves and crickets and cicadas. Life lush and green not yet exhaling. I was supposed to be someone else, I think. And I look to that white birthday we had together. And dream of inhaling frost.