Inhale.
I can taste the memories in the
air today, young boys pestering their fathers to
build tree houses on
old pine trees, trees that
tower far, far above the
white velveteen clouds that stretch through the
horizon, shielding my eyes from
what must be shielded.
Exhale.
I can smell the blood interlaced in the
cold fog that leaves my chest, leaving me
panting, restless, uneasy
my fingertips glide across
the ice as I collapse in a
forgotten breath, my body shrivels up in
a curl of excruciating pain, pain that
soon freezes over, leaving nothing but
snow angels looking over the pine trees,
pristine lakes, and heavenly skies.