he was cold and it sometimes hurt to touch him, he made my
skin itch with the tell-tale signs of frostbite setting in
and sometimes i would cringe. i never shied away though,
because the pain was worth the touch, the blessing.
permanently, he was tainted blue, like lake fryxell or the
Odessa sky in spring.
bundled in blankets and burning his hand with the iron, he
i loved his cheeks, they had a sign of life - they were red,
blood vessels rushing to the surface - a kiss from jack
frost. i was jealous.
i made him angry once and it was beautiful. snow fell from
the ceiling, a blizzard in the bedroom, defying logic and
reason. it did not stop for hours - it did not melt - and
when his mother died; he cried, and the room cried with him -
lightening and thunder; the dark roar that makes children
scream and hide beneath their beds. this, too, lasted for
many hours. the snow melted, and my carpet was soaked with
the smell of petrichor. he apologised and i did not
understand why, because i've always loved the rain - the
sound, the smell, the touch, the taste.
i bet he tasted like rain.