Winter of my discontent

It’s difficult not to think of her - especially in winter.

...Her paper-thin hands that crumbled in my grip like dried brown leaves, leaving behind a whiff of moist sweat.
...Her veins that stretched from her breasts to her face like rivers drawn on text-book maps.
...The soft beating of her heart, that I stayed up all night trying to harmonise with mine.
...The pink of her cream that merged with the grey of my cigarette smoke.
...Her freezing cold toes that tingled mine under the blanket, till they had mingled with the all the warmth in my blood
...The transluscence of the skin on her neck that made the act of drinking water seem like the playing of some ancient musical instrument


It’s difficult…

…One of these winter afternoons I would like to look out of my window and have the tree look back at me, defrosted clean of the icicles of memory.

Soon…