A Story About Eating Hearts
It starts with a black cat crossing the road leaving a trail of icy paw prints behind it. It ends with the same black cat curling up on your leather couch, purring about the storm it left outside. In between there are moments — fleeting — of happiness (the smell of cold air) of comfort (the scarf around your neck) of fear (the lack of fingers intertwined with yours as you crunch your way across a city) of loneliness (the muted road) of aliveness (the stoplights still blinking, still changing, still signaling movement) of hope (the sheet of ice that slides off your window in one piece — the thought that you can save it as a whole — showcase it on top of your mantle). In between there are moments — everlasting — of loss (finding a gold chain) of stillness (the tree you love to watch dance purple and green in the spring frozen in an arabesque) of warmth (a puddle reflecting the gray sky) of meaning (walking until you can no longer feel cold or warm — until you recognize the signs hanging from the buildings from a dream you once had — until your feet are sore — until your brain misinterprets your eyes, only showing the world in black and white — until your ears hear sadness and your heart is full of snowy images).
After, the cat will leave, and you will paint a snowscape on the moon with trees dangling gold chains, stoplights winking at puddles wearing scarves, a tall wall of lacy ice, disembodied eyes and ears floating above a fire, a family of human-ish shadows dancing circles around them all.
