Snow Days

It's two a.m. and we need cinnamon rolls, so we put on our coats, and run barefoot to the store.  You hold my hand.  We eat them in front of the window, and count the snowflakes that melt away on the windowpanes like wisps of cloud.  Then we lick icing off of our fingers, and give each other tissue paper kisses softer than butterfly wings.  You fall asleep, your limbs intertwined with mine, your fingers curled around me.  I feel your smooth skin, and kiss each one of your fingertips.  You sigh contentedly in your sleep, and your breath smells like cinnamon.  When you wake up, you blink your sleepy eyes at me, and smile.  I kiss you gently, and you kiss me back.  We make French toast, and eat it in a treehouse.  Snow has gathered on the beams of the treehouse during the night, and we scoop it up and make snowballs to throw at each other.  We tumble down ice cream hills, and dance on the glassy pond.  We find a dead, frozen fish, its eyes wide and blank like bullet wounds, and stare at it for a long time, because we can't believe that something could just fade out of existance so easily.