///WINTER///

Sun spilling over my face, black eyes glistening brown, wondering at the idea of winter being warmer than all the others. Autumn gave me chills, had me ill. Inhaling snow with friends ostensible never helped, and now it's the real season for frozen rain. The phlegm still dams my throat, but I'm sober. He made me, no, I chose to promise never to do it again, or at least that weekend -- the weekend after we began speaking audibly. Prior to, I only spoke to him in smiles and silences, through telepathic wishes I'm certain he embraced without showing sign. He asked me if saying "I see myself in you" to a girl he just met was too much. I told him no -- in my head more violently so -- because if he told me that I'd be over the moon. The girl responded to him in prose rather than poetry and, a few days following, our story began to write itself in poetry, in heartbeats, in suffering when apart, in breaths heavy, stealing oxygen from far within the earth, in feelings beyond love, in time non-existent, in smiles I never knew, laughs psychedelic, and drawings chromatically lachrymose. He, adamant, that my physical self, my social ineptness, my self-loathing is not what he sees; he views me intuitively, from deep down in his heart; he feels me, entwine myself around his subtle body.

He says we are the same.

And we are.