The Thaw

The colors will always come but once they reach their peak the brown crispy death takes hold. Soft veins feathering your palms and once dead become a crumbling jagged heap with the slightest grip. Should I allow my hands to stay open? Fingers splayed, left vulnerable and succumbing to the jaded familiar indifference I've felt one time too many? I had hope for this fall. The change didn't feel like an ending this time but merely a gradual transgression of semi-dormancy. Never fully awake, only half asleep, but still the red flows and burns within. Then the frost came. Crystallized and cooled the synapses and forced me to enter the fray once more. The endless grip of winter will come, the bitterness will attempt to coax the innocent, but the fire that always remains within will make love to the sun. I'm just biding my time until the thaw and wanting so bad for you to still be there in a melted puddle in my arms.