One cold October morning, my teeth were clattering when I found you walking towards me, smiling, not a cloth in your skin, as if the air was soothing you. Our eyes met, and funnily, I could already read your mind. Since then, I have been reading your mind. Your thoughts are predictable, yet your actions make me gasp for air. You remain lost, nonchalant in the harshest winter, while I wait, shivering. You feel no cold, yet you feel cold. Your icy grip contorts my face every time I hold your gaze. And every time I hold your gaze, I dream of warmth. Yet, I let you have my gaze, and I let you touch my face. I let my heat seep away from me and into you. I end up one step closer to death, and you remain detached. My warmth does not touch you; my heat does not melt you. I want to win the game, but you are not playing. Or maybe playing is all you do, and you haven’t been living. And I don’t understand how, despite knowing all your thoughts, I remain helpless and empty, gasping for air, this cold October morning.
