Nostalgic Winter

Thick dusk entices the breath in sumptuous rhythms of frigid heat; weary lungs comply, reminiscing with graying memories of flesh and blood and bone and heart.

And when the children laughed, they left tatters of worn vibrance in their wake. Though used and squandered, it never stops beating.

A mind deceives itself along the street, searching for a once-there gaze. A once-there frostbitten glow of knowledge unknown and sights unseen. And yet it never reaches its mark. A spark of heat lies on the tip of the tongue, spreading, burning, killing, choking. The wood splinters along the palms and spark embraces kindling with a kiss of yearning death. It crawls along the skin and never lets go.