I'm sitting on the doorsteps, watching the cars go by. I'm inhaling, I'm exhaling and I can see my breath, and I know exactly when I'm catching it; what thoughts are playing through my brain. I'm looking at the sky and it's completely bare, all the geese have gone to where it's warm, but I'm still sitting here; not quite feeling left behind. I want the days to get colder, I want winter to set in but only if you're here. We can bring back to life what the cold destroyed; we can put hope into blues and purples and frost flavored lips. Just press yours to mine and I'll inhale the white mist.
I'm watching the leafless trees blowing in the wind. I'm shivering and thinking that it wouldn't be so bad to feel that burning warmth on my skin, it wouldn't be so bad to have you catching my hair when it blows, and having the scent of you brush over my pale skin and rosy cheeks, to my cherry red nose. I've never quite admitted to things that were true and the white sky illuminates the scars and pinpricks from when I tried to sew this heart back together, when I didn't want to admit to anything more than being less than romantic. It wouldn't be so bad.
I'm watching the brown grass and thinking that some things look beautiful no matter what happens, even if they don't look beautiful to everyone; they still look beautiful to someone. I'm thinking that stretch marks, scars and bruises aren't very ideal, but that someone out there sees what I see when they look at winter's grass and they would agree with me when I claim that February is a miracle and April a time for healing.
I'm watching the deep brown door closed tightly in its frame, a wreath hung neatly above in an inviting gesture. I'm looking into deep brown eyes set on my face and noting an open hand, seeing just the same. I'm thinking I really don't mind inhaling what you exhale, I really don't mind the warmth overheating my heart and pumping blood into my lungs when frost flavored lips meet cinnamon stick flavored ones. I'm thinking it wouldn't be so bad to admit to being a romantic and wanting just the same as everyone else. I don't think it'd hurt to walk through that door and let spring come when it wants, because some people find brown grass beautiful even still. It won't hurt to have warm hands on my skin, sweet lips pressed on mine and a heart that pumps blood.