Winter comes finally. A white cold sheet draping itself haphazardly over trees and lampposts. It is said that to freeze to death is a sort of peace, but I have yet to cross such an abyss and for now it feels more like a soft trembling, the way the flakes spiral downwards, the way that icicles vein across my eyelashes, the way my heart looks out into the lazing drifts and wonders at what ifs and what weres. I have been waiting all this time for winter, for what I know. Though the cold is an ache, still it is normalized, it is what should be. All those months, languishing in the unseasonable warmth, was like breaking up with the seasons and being left hollowed out and waiting to feel something again.