I told you I never had a way with words, until one frosty morning, you found the old diary laden with silly adjectives and pretentious adverbs. I wish I could love you in ways that are not mediocre lovemaking or instant cups of coffee, but there are icicles crashing into each chord of my body, and sometimes all I can hear is the shatter of ice and the ghostly silence that follows.
Those words are reserved for the day that the blizzard stops, the day the shards thaw out and the day that he loves me again. Your ignorance is my heaven, your passion is my guilt, and your adoration is my relief.
My darling, lock away those wilted pages and shove it deep into the darkness, ignore the faint dripping of the melting sleet, and come back into my arms so we can continuing playing this messy game of pretend.
