This when your mouth is warmed by another. This is the stardust between the sheets and the wings that beat in your chest. This is white. This is colour. This is the beginning of something new. This is white. This is colour. This is the end of everything old.
Wake up, dear. This is when the sun will thaw the ice in your chest. This is when you'll realise that the sun was always shining and that you'd been indoors all this time. This is when you'll throw your head back to laugh along with me, hysteria rising up your throat like a bubble, because all this time—all this time—you only had to step outside to see that winter had long since been broken. That the webbed ice on the pavement is nothing but a puddle steaming off in the sun.
Wake up, dear, because this is it.
