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Winter and I have a thing: though we date other people, I know Winter’s the one for me. We roast chestnuts, twirl leaves, freeze whole ponds of people’s emotions, that sort of thing, but I’ve never met someone as refreshing as a mouthwash. I once dated Summer, but he kept flirting with the palm trees; I got jealous of his touching everybody; he’d kiss anything his lips couldn’t formulate; and so I left the club. Who wants to love someone just looking for flesh?
Winter doesn’t touch or kiss or formulate. With Winter, I’m safe. Yeah, I catch wandering eyes and nipples like icicles, but Winter’s mine.
Over a river of lifetimes, Winter and I will stroll, on our honeymoon. Beside the beaches of Death, we will frolic like sculptures of ice, with our children. After our lights melt, the echoes of our singing, like snow on Christmas trees, will fill the world.
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