And oh the woozy ending days of winter!

My mind as blurred as the median,

the road salt melting, the curving tracks

within my brain of crumbling ice.

And while I want to cry as dizziness subsides,

I don’t. For I feel bitter comfort approaching,

unwanted comfort in that I desire the sweet pleasure

of unadulterated, solitary sadness.

I feel myself spinning, hear my ears ringing.

Bells are for when you fall in love,

not when you realize again and again that this was meant to be,

not when you realize why time has been passing so blurred.

This was meant to be, you and me.

Winter’s passing and a fading season,

crunchy, slippery snow, mixed with mud, color of confusion.

Confusion’s got nothing on us.

We are not faulted, though we are not at fault.

There is a certain oblivion to the comfort of familiarity,

a certain numbness in holding your hand,

in kissing your lips, grazing the white of your stomach.

The curves your chest are the words that I speak.

Tongue moving against you, blissful,

as our last snow falls, the snow that fell when we fell in love.

We were not falling, we were dancing.

As there is a grace to springtime, there is a grace to familiarity.

As my woozy winter floats away,

I stumble into the graceful comfort

of your love.