Left Bank

I dreamed of frail branches sprouting, long slender twigs trembling in anticipation and under exertion, but determined. How green they were, the tiny, wrinkled leaves, how impossibly small yet unstoppable and we knew there would be no going back. The story of the dream, the twists, the point, are all gone, there were fall foliage colors and bright sunny mountainsides seen from ski lifts and space to breathe, but mostly there was that vibrant green that could pierce a heart with joy if you let it. How could you not?

When I woke, too late, the skies were grey, the snow sped in flurries around the street corners and I felt the stab of betrayal in my gut. People below hurried, pulled their coats tighter, suffered. Sometimes the heavy cold rains would beat it back so that it would seem that [spring] would never come and that you were losing a season out of your life. I scrub kitchen tiles in a desperate attempt to get the cog wheels within to start turning again, to remember they are alive and have choices to make. I don't think I'll be selling in April. I think maybe, if you want, you can stay through summer.  

He runs his fingers through his hair in that way of his, stands in my hallway, pulling at the strings of my life because I hand them to him. God or Devil, it is impossible to gauge his power, and I know it's unfair to even call it his. A soundtrack beats in my ear drum, pulls at my heartstrings, I cry over the dirty dishes in a home I try not to call mine. February will drag you through the dregs, will ruin your pretty dress and force the gravel into your eyes. It sinks its teeth into your pale skin until its venom has drowned you entirely. You haven't even soul left enough for tears.

But there are flowers on your windowsill, they stretch their petals towards the sky and mock the season with their mere existence.

Grit your teeth, stare at them until your eyes bleed.

This, too, shall pass.