Cold Bones

May I retire to the pines, where I can lie in the snow and listen to the wind’s muffled breath as it dives through the branches, the cold hugging my bones. Let me die here, alone.

I am a recluse.

He calls me from the warm house, asks what I’m doing.

I’m practicing my death. I think to myself.

I start walking back towards the golden lights above the house. It’ll be beautiful.