I love when the trees are bare and the wind whispers threats of turning me into a frozen sculpture of the land. I love the way in which my nose burns and turns red like fire, my lungs fill with shards of glass, like being in the vacuum of space. There I go, fantasizing about my own death.

I sit next to him as he raises the centers of his brows at me, the endorphines still running through us. And he asks, how come I don’t relish this way about living? My answer, “why can’t I do both?”

And what about the winter to come? I look forward to the cold, the frosted layers upon everything. The sun reflecting up from the snow, creating a blinding light that penetrates my sight, reminding me that my vision is fragile, like the rest of me.

Maybe I take my body for granted, I don’t worry enough. I should start taking my choices more seriously, at least this is how I’m suppose to feel. I don’t mean to be understood by anyone, that’s where I am indifferent. It may come off as negative but the truth is I couldn’t be bothered. Even that statement could be taken the wrong way.

I may seem cold, like the frost that looms just around the corner. But inside me is the sun, like the one reflecting from the crystalized puffs on the ground come winter. If no one dares to thaw the frost it’s not for me to show them the brightness underneath.