The groundhog saw his shadow yesterday. It figures.

I sigh and fog the window with warm breath and apathy. I am the child with her nose pressed up against the window. My fingertip automatically moves to the space, tracing a lopsided heart. I've been making these all winter, but somehow they're never perfect.

There is a thick blanket of snow on the ground outside. Two days ago we made angels together, all laughter and lying in grass that stays buried under the winter. I look out at the lawn and imagine I know which tracks are yours and mine. When you're in love--the kind of magical love that slays dragons and conquers all--it should be easy to tell your lover's footprint apart from any other at a 20 meter distance. Right?

When you're in love, you should also be content with everything. The winter doesn't seem any prettier, though, just because you like me. Snow is just snow, isn't it? It might be pretty and white right now, but soon it'll turn into puddles of muddy water and smog-filled chunks on the side of the road. And once that melts, it's gone but you know it'll come back... eventually.

I made the mistake of telling you this yesterday, over hot chocolate. And you got all mad and hurt and acted like I'd said something terrible, just because I'm not impressed by snow. We might've started off great, but now everything's all muddy and mushy and tainted and gross.

Now my feet are sweaty inside thick wool socks and my thighs are cold inside thin jogging pants. I slide off the overstuffed chair and dial your number. February is like this every year.

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