Rivers of fumbling knees and bones made from sorrow; will you follow me into the sea tomorrow? I gave you sun-beams to plant inside your palms - do my blossoms still grow there? I found the lost leaves windswept in the rain; crumpled and shaking. Scented skin under sheets and hands forgotten; the way they once entwined. Thoughts scattered with words - words that refused to be left behind, inside the pockets of winter. Trailing fingers on lips; my body will shiver and my voice will crack, like ice upon willow.

Somewhere, perhaps far away from here, a heart that is turning into stone is starting to feel warm again in the hands of spring. There is a bird inside trying to get out. A family of marigolds trying to grow beneath the dry and cracked earth. Words trying to make themselves disappear. Cheeks wanting to be touched by a stranger. Letters of lost love that need to be shut away in old suitcases; deep under the bed along with the other secret stories and whispers of longing. Winter has been a difficult companion lately, but she tells me that this is her time for unhidden sorrow; she can’t help but let the winds carry her screams and turn her tears into snowflakes for all to see. As I walked home with droplets from the sky upon my eyelashes and frost clinging to my fingers in hope, I thought: next season I won’t be a snowflake but I’ll be a cherry blossom tree instead.

I felt better after making picture books sewn together with string, and writing notes to be hidden away inside the pocket of a pillowcase. The colour the sky looked at 7am, like a quiet blue lagoon; delicate and untouched, as if the sun knew what it felt like to be in that safe place when you’re only half awakened. I sat by the open window, letting the cold winter air stroke my cheeks to reassure myself that I was still there; still existing. I curled myself around my own heart that morning, and fell asleep in the bed in which I had been avoiding; holding onto the hands of the first day of January.