Fwd: "I'm an animal trapped in your hot car."
The winter hides the empty.
The winter preserves the cold.
Winter and I coalesce. The trees now disrobed and bare, embarrassed of their illnesses and their terminal certainty to grow large and stern only to eventually rot away with the change of time. Dry leaves will litter the streets and the winter will shamefully hide them with its white coat to signify a cyclic movement, an end to a beginning and a beginning to an end. It's almost as if the season itself is cancerous. The controlled and repeated stripping of liveliness. It's a necessity to balance. An appendage intact to life itself if not a decided counterpart.
I want my carcass submerged in snow. But I want my eager hands left reaching outward and upward and exposed until the earth eats them away and picks the remains from between its ever gnashing teeth. What if the hands were the windows to the soul? What if we'd gotten it all wrong? Doctors on salaries whom we are all more familiar with than our own lovers. It's laughable but what isn't? The movement and the mannerisms help define the person. Shaky or steady. Watch where they go. What appeals most to the hand surely appeals most to its rightful owner. Cold and clammy, dry and coarse. No two fingerprints alike, supposedly. What a beautiful disposition; to be forged an individual and to strive for reciprocation.
A barrage of powerful words; a mosaic of literature.
Our pillows wet with sweat and sob stories.
We all cry "rape!" in the morning.
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