The winter smells like when we first met.
The icy peppermint sting to my nostrils and the cigarette smoke to my mouth.
I feel it now. Every fall.
The fall that we first met.
The fall that we first met her.
The fall that we first met another her.
And then there is the patio in which we used to step out on. Icy cold but it was fresh. Fresh with our intoxication and merry. Fresh with our introductions an questions.
The fall. My fall.
Questionably our fall. The Fall of my fall. Our fall?
As as I stumbled down, your hand outstreched.
But I knew the other hand was frozen. Holding on to a hand that was forever gone.
And still my ice cold hand froze yours.
Here we are frozen. Into a Disney story that maybe wasn’t supposed to be.
But it is and it has and it is stunningly us.