Somewhere in my future, on a deceivingly cold day, you leave your things at the door and press your cool face against mine. I can smell the winter on your skin. Bitter; warm sweat tangled with a stinging frost. Pungent like a cadaverous breath. Instead of pulling away from your cold, sour grip, I hold on tighter. I can taste the night in your mouth. Dusk; when I craved for the twilight of your face, your overcast voice. Miss for a man I didn’t know, and love for a man I didn’t want. Standing here, holding onto you, and swallowing your hellos, wishing for you, still. I’ll always fondly remember winter, just like this. Remembering my future.
Staring at her I could feel you next to me. Knowing everything would be different. Feeling it in my bones, in my blood, on my skin. In the children we have yet to have. Like ripples and waves in a field of wheat. Knowing, innately, upon the sight of creamy red Christmas light bulbs discarded on the wayside, it had to be over. Even if she didn’t already say so.
So absolutely you’ve settled, like silt, within me. A simple life, of faded wood, chipped paint and dripping water taps. Remembering the past of my future.