Tazia Machl, Staff Writer
I will forever remember this autumn with a regretful fondness, one colored in shades of milky coffee and decomposing cigar ashes on my frozen windowsill. I squeeze those golden memories in my hands so hard that they slip through my palm; I milk them desperately for a drop of hope. Hope.
I remember how, mere months ago, the air tasted of cinnamon and caramel. I long for those half-drunken confessions of love, long for the romanticism that consumed me.
It’s mid-December. I lost so much this year. The world did not end in March- nor did it in August. Yet still, I turn into the new year feeling like the aged red wine you spilled over my bed sheets so long ago.
It’s winter. Half-written love poems doodle through my notebooks. I wear your navy shirt- i love you, whispered in drops of earl gray. It’s winter and I find myself yearning for the unattainable domesticity I promised to never crave. Wait patiently, I tell myself, and it will come.
It’s winter. I question if any choice I make is right at all. I come home every night to see my grandparents forgetting my name. My mom’s hair is turning grey. I wake up to nightmares every night and weep, wishing I could crawl into a bigger bed.
It’s winter and I’ve forgotten moments which have haunted me for years. It’s winter and people I loved last year are now afterthoughts whose lives I watch through pictures. It’s winter and I’m worried it always will be.
Featured Image Credit: John Coleman
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