It's cold, and the rain has turned to snow, big clumsy flakes that clonk down on shiny streets and sidewalks and fill the light-bubble of each streetlamp with a downscrolling blur, slower than rain, each one catching on the air as it tumbles down. They don't actually clonk, it's more of a icy wet sshhhh, the last third of a mostly-melted cherry snow cone as it disappears down your throat (not shave ice--I'm talking about the kind that starts life as a crunchy scoop of infinitesimal ice cubes), a sweet slippery shock sliding into the heat of you, mixed with memories of blinding headaches: too much, too cold, too fast. But they--the snowflakes--clonk inside my heart.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
|