Fat Flakes of Snow

The light is coming into the room coloring everything gray. A shroudy snowfall outside shimmering in the bars of my window, giving a glow to the drab but only in its fleetingness. A flame outdoors would create a spark, would lighten up the living room. Until the embers gathered together, washed into one gray pile, a dustpile forgotten in the cracks of the corner. The dustpile collecting dust, floating around, quieting down when people walked by. Surviving by staying out of sight, the snowy tendrils of cold bleakly flash off the half-full detergent, throwing a shadow across the Un-vaccumed carpet.

The cold is real here, bundling a sweater over her shivering shoulders. Furiously mounting a defense destined to crumble beneath the frozen tides of the ocean, the freezing pull of the moon. And we sit shaking in our mysterious cold, warmth refusing to penetrate the tight spaces of our bodies. The cool blue light trying to fight through the glass, leaving cracked tendrils on the pane, snowy spiderwebs.

Catching a cold has taken on a new meaning. Now, the cold is doing the catching, and all we can do is sink down further under the blanket, wispily whispering words of warning, to the cold, to each other, to ourselves. Let us last another night.