The snow turns our year into white noise. Like the echo chamber in your noise cancelling earphones, the bliss is whitewashed with flurries of snow. My body becomes powdered chalk; your touch is desiccated. On First Night, I watch the ice sculptures outside the Copley Plaza Hotel and wonder how many days they’ll take to melt. When the temperature increases, they’ll shrink into grotesque stumps and become puddles of dirty water. I try to remember your warm hands on my back, my spine liquefying under your palms, but the December chill numbs me through my blue coat and pink pom-pommed hat. As I lie down outside Trinity Church to make snow angels, I see ice crystals free-falling. My words become the fine rime on their backs.
1 May 2018