|Winter and Spring|
Why is this love so strange?
Because he's winter, he's all bones and sharp angles and pale skin. Old and tight and dry, painstakingly dry. Something kicked around, something unwanted, a reality you have to deal with or suffer its wrath. Pain, woe, broken promises gone in a chilly wind.
And him, he is spring. He's rounded and young and a force to be reckoned with. A promise of something new, something just beginning to take form. Fragrant as a rose garden with a corpse in its center. Never resting, like a blossom floating in the wind.
Together, they're a natural disaster, the kind that people talk about for years, the kind you never forget. Somehow, in some foolish, immortal way, they keep their bodies in limbo and their minds in the eye of the storm.
Never look back, never relent, never think of the implications of your actions. That's how they are and were and probably always will be until they get torn in two again and will have to look back on their unlives.
For Winter and Spring may be opposites, but they always come right next to each other.