Warmth

This is the story of our youth, written like cracks in the tile that lines the shower.
Don't worry, my dear, don't fret.  These things will hold themselves together.
The season changed from winter to spring in an odd transition that saw all of the cold feeling that I harbored go unrequited.  How could I write great poetry if snow becomes a memory?  White, wet, cold...that is all I remember.  I have photographs though that make me think, perhaps, that there is a beauty in the desolation.  Maybe there are portents in the way the wind moves great clouds of tree pollen through the city, coating everything in a hue that evokes vomit.

There was no way I would be able to dress for occasions anymore.  It is impossible to be fashionable in sweat.  We were doing so well in our coats.

Here now was a girl...a girl because being a girl implies innocence and don't we all wish we were...
Here she is and here we are, beneath an oddly warm sky that beckons interaction.
How long have I known you?  A long time.  A long time. 
God have mercy on everyone, and maybe a little more on me.
The story of our youth is like the cracks in the pavement.  When the road is cool--though it is seldom so--it contracts and pulls within itself as if to indicate that insulation is the whole of being.  Yet, as the sun lingers...heat.  Heat.  Now that same space is expanding in an angry way that ruptures and breaks.  This is the nature of roads.  This is the nature of hearts.