When winter was approaching last year, we were in the field, on the hill, above your father's house. Trying too desperately to make it work, we clung to eachother's limp (and barely warm) bodies. I collected old glass bottles from the woods, but couldn't carry as many as I liked. You couldn't help me. You had your own treasures to collect. Then, standing in the open expanse, I saw the middle of nowhere church where you first told me you loved me and I said, "too fast, baby, too fast."
I left the window open last night and felt those same cold, fresh, winds I felt when we shared a bed and a home. The winds, they smelled the same, and I was happy, not reaching for you.
It's another year, then, I guess. And it's good this way. We know that it is.