The drop doesn’t fall. Winter is not in the habit of giving. The bead of longing made palpable freezes. It doesn’t scab. It freezes. A ruby wart, hanging from my chin. Winter’s joke, attached by nothing but fear and too much desire. I stagger away from this neglected manifestation of Eden and tumble back into the world of shards and edges, but my clarity is broken by true clarity, and I can’t fight the wind with my own panoply of bitterness pierced by perfection.

Back in the world I realize that I am crying, trying vainly to recreate heaven with the salt on my cheeks.

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