The world of opposites

      I thought that the coolness of the wind must come from the ice in our veins. My lungs had often detected the emptiness of its slow ballet through the trees, but not so much as when the breeze kissed my skin, summoning my blood to the surface in the form of a rose. I’d marvel at those winter mornings when we all looked like pale sunsets, smiling our elegiac smiles of shared sorrow.

      I never quite understood the world of opposites, how something so biting could give birth to such warmth. I still don’t. All I know is the fluttering of our hearts is more than enough to draw up a storm primed to consume us all.