When I was younger I could wear shorts through December and never think twice. It might be because I've lost some weight since then, but it seems as though, once I turned 16, I can't seem to keep warm. I've tried sweaters, I've tried scarves, I've tried boys, and still the goosebumps rise. Sometimes it's so cold, it burns. That concept always fascinated me. Starting a hot bath and running my 7-year-old hand under the water, the sting of the water feeling like ice, and suddenly an instant burn. I think it's hot water's own source of camouflage. Cold water, to my hand at least, is much less threatening. I'll stick around for a while. It reminds me of a swimming pool or a drinking fountain, good signs of a childhood summer. The pierce of heat comes only after I have allowed my senses to accept the nostalgia of cold. I am unprepared, and it burns.
He was like that. He came as a comfort, but left so suddenly, and oh, how it burned. He's still there, in my head, spinning circles, taunting me. He came as a pillow, as comfortable as childhood summer, and he kept me warm. He gave me his jacket and rolled me up in his blue blanket. It was, after all, the cold that brought our hands to touch for the first time, my head to find his shoulder, and my arms to cling to him. We planted ourselves on that bench, under a blanket, chilled to the bone, because it was the only place we could be together. And so we were.
I can't seem to keep warm now. I try jackets, I try mittens, I try superficial hugs with superficial boys who cannot compare. I miss our nick-names, our secret handshake, the shoe in the door. I miss french fries, the corner table, kissing with our glasses on. I miss his chocolate eyes that are windows to his soul, the way his eyelashes curl, and the way he found walking without holding hands unacceptable. His smile stretched when I embarrassed myself, but his arms always stretched further. I miss green sweaters and blue sweaters, brown shoes and black shoes. I miss the way he made me feel happy, excited, bubbly, confused, intrigued, hopeful, infinite. Most of all I miss the way he could never hold me close enough. With him, my covers were softer, the coffee was smoother, the sun was brighter. I was warm.
He was like that. He came as a comfort, but left so suddenly, and oh, how it burned. He's still there, in my head, spinning circles, taunting me. He came as a pillow, as comfortable as childhood summer, and he kept me warm. He gave me his jacket and rolled me up in his blue blanket. It was, after all, the cold that brought our hands to touch for the first time, my head to find his shoulder, and my arms to cling to him. We planted ourselves on that bench, under a blanket, chilled to the bone, because it was the only place we could be together. And so we were.
I can't seem to keep warm now. I try jackets, I try mittens, I try superficial hugs with superficial boys who cannot compare. I miss our nick-names, our secret handshake, the shoe in the door. I miss french fries, the corner table, kissing with our glasses on. I miss his chocolate eyes that are windows to his soul, the way his eyelashes curl, and the way he found walking without holding hands unacceptable. His smile stretched when I embarrassed myself, but his arms always stretched further. I miss green sweaters and blue sweaters, brown shoes and black shoes. I miss the way he made me feel happy, excited, bubbly, confused, intrigued, hopeful, infinite. Most of all I miss the way he could never hold me close enough. With him, my covers were softer, the coffee was smoother, the sun was brighter. I was warm.
1 comment:
Damn girl, you are a writer.
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