The joints of my knuckles ache from the cold without your fingers filing the gaps between mine

Snow has fallen for the first time in a decade and I am a summer child

The leaves are dead here, and the roots are starting to show

Though it is winter, Christmas is not coming

You always told me December was a capitalist myth, but never that you carried that tale with you

Outside, I find myself transfixed with my own reflection in the icicles dangling off the side of my house

They were water, too, once

Were they the ocean held in the hue of your iris? Or were they the tears that fell into your empty stocking?

The memory of liquid echoes in their crystalline points, forever lost to January

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