It only snows when I’m walking alone. I’ve never shared the snow with anyone. I don’t want to either. Somehow, if I ever do, it won’t make sense anymore.
That loneliness is the only way to hold on to those thoughts, those dreams we shared. It’s the only way to grasp the elusive rays of hope we once had, all the silly stories we faked together.
I miss you.
And no it’s not getting any easier with time. I don’t share it with anyone, how can you share a nameless emotion that is as unique as each ray of sunlight falling on your face in the morning?
I miss you.
It’s in the little things they’ll never notice. Like how your coffee mug doesn’t smile anymore. The wrinkles in your favorite chair miss you, you know. The birds pecking at your window know there’s something wrong. Even the silver rain crackling on the old floorboards are lonely without you.
There’s something special about throwing the snow in the air and watching the drizzle fall to my face. It makes me feel alive, when most often I don’t anymore.
The mountain often calls out your name. I never know what I’m supposed to say. It stands resolute, watching over the debacle around and wondering where the stars go to hide. The climb will never make sense again, because the stars and distant night lights only cared for you, never for me.
And I still miss you.
It isn’t even a little bit easier. They say that time heals all wounds, but the scars never stop bleeding when the monsters are out and about. I try to paint with my blood, to tell stories of you and I, but it never cuts it. Maybe the words are lost in a song, somewhere I cannot reach or, maybe I am too scared to reach.
I shake the snow out off my hair, engrossed in the numbness on my cheeks. The little flowery crystals fall down everywhere around me, settling quietly in the emptiness. I never shared the snow with anyone, but I’ve always shared it with you.
The Unwriting 