Softly

It snowed today.
It hit me as I biked past the central station, light wisps of white dust sweeping pleasantly around me. I wanted to be angry at the approaching winter, at the seasons changing too soon and me in my white summer jacket still. But as I crossed the bridge and passed the parliament building, quiet and dark in its after-hours suit, I looked up at the south island and saw that special hue the sky turns at the year's first snow fall. How dark, and yet how illuminated. How quiet the air below.

By the time I'd come around the Old Town, the snow had increased. The glittery sprinkles turned into big, wet flakes in the air, like heavy eyelashes batting against my skin and a million of them fell into the black sea, were never heard from again. I had to keep my head down, but snuck peaks at the city as it fell below me on the hill, subdued, sparkling, silent. I thought the first snow fall is magic, and couldn't help but smile. An hour later it was over, the streets glistening with thawed crystals, the street sweeper no busier than the warm night before.

Why don't we play pretend at this, after all? We can break each other's hearts, and be done with it.