I run my finger through a line of dust on the shutters my Mother chose. They barricade the windows throughout the house that will one day be mine. The house that Jack built.
Through the pane of frosted glass I watch the bench where we sat in the summer sun, now sitting heavy with freshly fallen snow.
I see you, smiling and shirtless. Your skin hot to my hand. I was worried I'd get burnt. We went inside and back to my single bed, descending in the swell of a sensual siesta.
I close the blind and wipe the dust away. A snowflake meanders into the glass, melting to the trickle of a tear. I had wanted there to be nothing between us. Now that's all there is.
