He thrives in winter, while I wither away and hide and try to make myself fearsome
when I'm a starved little thing. The thawing hurts him,
shakes him, sets a noose of saudade and old reflexes around his neck
and kicks at the chair he's on with taunting feet.
It's not pity, this, it's just... vision. Seeing.
Spring wakes me. I live the most in
(
Read more... )