The snow made the grey ground pristine. A lie with a lie.

Flakes as big as a fist, a breath-wisped cloud of chaos and precise geometry.

Our paths were made exact by the fall, a treacherous cartography of comings and goings.

The things we need to remain hidden made obvious by a blanket that hid the rest.

Our city shaded and shadowed, lit from new angles by solid highlights.

It made corners we knew miracles, told fairy tales in long forgotten patches of dirt.

That zeal to explore, child-like ignorance of physics and strangers.

We ran to the park and made angels in a centimetre,

Patches of skin scratched raw on still exposed concrete.

Wet knees, cold hands, an exploration in innocence and ice.

I left you on the ground, rolled a ball as big as my head,

And threw it into the frozen pond. Shards, cracked, a cloud of exclaimed and wondering breath.

But now the paths I mark are mine alone. A truth in single-file.

The snow was ours, it made our city glister, ruddy cheeks and glinting eyes.

Now it is cold. And I’m walking home on my own.


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