Winter came, and we stayed inside by the warmest place in the house—our bed. Side by side, we held each other until our collarbones ached from being in such close proximity. With every rising breath, my chest touched yours, and I tried to count our pounding heartbeats. I don't think this is love.
I think this is loneliness.
When the season grows cold, who else do we have but ourselves? There's no other choice but to comfort each other in the most uncomfortable ways possible. We were two lonely people in an empty and frozen house. Our survival was the heat radiating off of our bodies. We didn't love each other—at least, not anymore. We were just starved of touch and warmth.
And so, as the snow continued to fall atop our old, precious memories, we simply continued to hold each other until we were satisfied.
YOU ARE READING
efflorescence
Poetry[efflorescence] the action or process of developing and unfolding as if coming into flower - a collection of wilting thoughts
