Blood on the Ice.

Summer: The tempest sun and slightest wind. Hot, boiling sun. The kind that blisters your shoulders and makes your eyelids sweat. Sunscreen evaporated off my burning flesh, blue whirlpools left goosebumps on my neck, and hurricanes kept me up at night. It was beautiful, watching the lighting hit the water. So near to me. I could feel the thunder in my bones, i felt my jaw shatter. Dangerous, risky, beautiful; the canyon lit up at night. We conversed about Henry Ford that day, remember? The beginning of it all. Here we are, dear. Exchanging books and spilling ourselves into the receiver. I'm just a puddle now. Who would have guessed? Not even me. But I'm glad the art of automobiles caught our eyes. I'm glad the sun boiled our skin that day. The sunburns were worthwhile.

Winter: I woke up in a sultry room. A knee in my back, my heart in my throat. Elizabeth was calling, holding her sparkler. Eight missed calls. I couldn't sleep after that. I watched the sun rise behind gray buildings, and I vanished in dark leather with heavy eyelids. It's all so heavy, you know? Foreboding apprehension. The hurricane unveiled, leaking hidden pleasantries. Blood on the ice. You are relentless, in a word. A dedicated birdwatcher viewing pigeons, lined up along the beams. But it's all okay.
We are, you are, and everything will be.
I will drive on powdered sugar roads singing with Emily.
I will walk under trains in the comfort of flickering white lights.
I will dine on the sun in cashmere sweaters.
Simply because I like the pigeons.