My version of winter has always been flawed. It is controlled by the fall of snow and the exact amount of the ground it covers. It never ever covers the tiny little patch in the garden, right near the broken tin roofed shed. I suppose that is why I just like the idea of snow. But I do not love it.
(Realisation: I suppose that little corner represents the only part of me that even I cannot love.)
I met a man with candle lit wolf eyes and a strong, warm lion heart, who tells me Sea God stories before disappearing into a cold, cold winter's morning, fog cloaking his very essence.
(Addendum: Sometimes I think of five a.m. coffee, and wonder if your smile didn't hold all of winter's warmth in it, whether I would still be liking the idea of it.)
He lights candles and turns my room into a place of sanctity and prayer often. It makes the love making ironic in a way, I suppose. But nothing he ever does fails to intrigue the very fabric that my cotton soul is made of.
(Observation: His body is my temple, his hands my place of prayer. He treats me like a high priestess, sometimes his queen, and sometimes...as nothing at all.)
On a day when I was breaking into pieces of me, he took my hands, and promised me a forever made of windows of snow, winter and candles, the kind of winter candles that never ever die out when placed on windowsills.
I looked into his eyes and explained to him how forever was winter proof, that candles die, oh and just so he knew, "Minds like mine are glasshouses that can defeat even the most beautiful of snowstorms."
(Apologies: I am going to give you a bat, my darling. Here is my glasshouse.
Now then. Start smashing.)