Cold

The snow gets in through the window and melts on my hands. I have spent too long collecting words, like I would want to look back, as though I would recognize that girl. The cold turns the tips of my fingers pink, like the skin has peeled back to reveal something else. Something softer. Something newer. I make no move to pull away, or turn into the warmth of the rest of the house. This is a place just under my heart, where winter comes to turn it blue so precisely I can see straight to the bottom of it — where I have been dropping things with increasing frequency, unwilling to hold them anymore.

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