Living in the snow-filled woods, with the enemy army coming in, with nothing but wolves on the periphery, with canned food in the cellar, with holes in our sweaters, with rats scratching underneath the floorboards, with ash for soap, with my head on your chest – your hard chest with faint beating heart, with your eyes so peaceful and happy, with your hands tender and gentle, with your voice calm and beautiful (for nothing but the wind outside muffles it), listening to old records and knowing that we are here until the spring, until the roads melt down and let through somebody, perhaps a traveler on his way somewhere.
You sit at the desk and write, the faint winter sun as pale as the paper, and your skin dull as an eggshell. I trace your shape with my eyes – wide shoulders and straight neck, your short messy hair exposing your clear forehead, your smooth cheekbones, your resolute mouth. The pen between your fingers, the look in your eyes as you gaze at the infinite fields of snow, where dry yellow grass had succumbed to the white. We are on top of the world and turns out we are nowhere, and in this forgotten place my love for you is stripped off its coats and lies raw.
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