In Winter

The first snow of this year came in early November.

My footprints were the first to make an impression,
and I admitted I had missed the snow.

The snow reminds me of my past,
and I missed the pain I used to feel in its presence.

Of dying men lying inert under a cold sun,
surrounded by a sea of melted green,
decapitated by the time and weather
and the cruelty of adolescent youth,
reminders of their futile existence
manifest only in the faded music
of those who were once children
as they sing of a past that is gone

and of a future that is not coming.

It hurts to see them sprawled there,
remnants of childhood memories
and others even more recent.

It snowed the day her life spun out of existence.

The snow reminds me of my pain,
and of what caused it.

Hot chocolate after hours of sledding,
which I never really liked except in December.
Blanketed in warmth while outside
the rest of the world is blanketed in white.
Wrapped up by the fireplace,
hearing stories I've heard my entire life.
Synchronized Christmas lights
in obscure neighborhoods to my favorite carols.

The reality of December is heartbreak,
but the fantasies it brings are the best kind
because they don't leave me heartbroken.
Even if I never end up holding hands
while I look at Christmas lights in the cold,
it doesn't seem to matter anymore.

The snow reminds me of everything I have lost,
and of everything I have yet to lose.

Twelve Minutes

Every footstep is a threat,
even my own.

I turn up the volume
as if not being able to hear them
means that they aren't there.

I have no one to trust,
no one to hold my hand.

I keep looking behind me,
expecting the worst.
The streetlights give me comfort,
until
I wonder what horrors they've seen 

in the dead of night.

Groups are safer.
Groups don't make me feel afraid.

Each time I make it home,
my relief lessens and
my terror heightens because of it.

I should be more frightened
each time I walk home alone.
Right?

Strange that being safe
makes me feel more unsafe.

It only takes nine minutes if you walk quickly.

Metaphorical Desk

My weeks are measured
by library due dates and the last time I saw you.

Like the desk that doesn't know which way to face,
I'm caught between past and future.

And just like the desk, I've put myself here,
out of place.