When can we picnic?

It was spring time when you were diagnosed and I withered with ice in my heart. You carved it into cubes, put them in my glass and toasted to timelessness.

We wore fairy lights on our skin that night, didn’t we? Went a little far, fetched few cigars, hid them in a stolen cookie jar, wrapped our things in a bedsheet, slid down the damn window and drove away.

“Goosebumps,” they said “are read best in Braille.” Quite rightly!

The first shoots of the green squeaked like happy messages under our feet.

Smoke sought skies. Coins of sunshine danced on trees. We caught time in the empty jar, didn’t we? Our most prized currency. The nights soar, we watched suns go down but the leaves turned brown to death. Why did they?

Life mocks us today. We drag along. Our jar hollow as our hearts. The fairy lights sorrier than our skins. “Sigh! Some other day,” we say, we delay the departure, force the unread letters into the fireplace. In a dry rustle, the words burn, leaving no trace.

It’s spring time again, you haven’t left your bed and the ice within me just grows thicker. Frozen moments flake off my lips like dead skin. The snow has melted on the roofs but we haven’t been picnicking.

Even seasons need time to heal.

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