We're standing mere inches above the scariest thing we know,
the bare soles of our feet pressing down on thin ice, and the miles
of indecipherable, watery depth stretching out beneath us like a long, drawn out sigh. In this frozen landscape, there are a thousand
You and I's
shifting their weight between each foot nervously, all glancing up
at each other with fleeting, unfocused eyes and slow, frosty breath.
The sun refuses to set for what seems like decades, but when
I finally take my eyes off of that blinding fire, night descends suddenly,
initially with grace, finality only an afterthought.
All those years of indefinite acts meet all at once, remaining as still and light as the situation allows. Hands, still. Lips, stiller.
No one wants to move; no one wants to break the ice.

Again, this time in a house. Me, under my duvet of silence.
You, with clumps of carpet stuck between your teeth. The landlord
is here, warning us about complaints. Apparently the sound of our stomachs dropping and hitting the floor is making too much
of a racket. I just can't take him seriously because he wears
denim on denim on denim and claims to hate the Winter.
The joke's on him though; we're sitting out under harsh porch lights, letting our eyelashes take snowflakes captive, just letting cool wind blow through us. No one moves, speaks, the road stretching out
into ambiguous darkness past our feet. We like to think this is Wonderland, Antarctica, where it is Winter everlasting, and we can actually afford rent for a change.