Even the snow is a story. The navy blue sea sky above the white gray houses, waiting. Cold floors and vacant air in my lungs, waiting. Do you remember what I said to you, my sweet sweet story-burdened creature with your beaten heavy wings. Inside the blanket where the darkness takes you over. Wrapped like a softened animal, shivering. Your eyes burning with that desperate haze which glazes your soul with tears like a bowl shines wet before it can be ready. I opened my mouth and swallowed each last drop of the panic you held tight in your clenched stomach. I told you the morning was on fire. That if you hold on you will not be able to stop the colors from coming for you. If you stay with me, every shade of every shade will come and come and come and you will hear them without even trying. I offer you my tongue and you take it. I offer you my hands and you take them as if you didn’t even know. I can feel the warmth melting like ice drips from spring trees between us. The story is the story. Your body, your mind, your soul, your skin and speech and dreams. Your cravings, your teeth. Your tired eyes and messed up needs. These words you have let seep inside of your blood and sail through your blue veins like it’s nothing but a moment dying or saved. Or both. It’s all a story, my precious precious thing. Even the snow, falling just now all around you. Alone with me. We are a story. Waiting.