Across the Seasons — Winter

Photograph by: Christopher Prosser and Shaun Schroth  / Words by: Genevieve Palmieri

Across the Margin, in coordination with Washington D.C. photographers Christopher Prosser and Shaun Schroth, continues its interpretations of the seasons through both snapshots and words……

There’s a silver halite wash over the city-
I’m sure I’ve seen this movie before.

Light present for only a moment-
Hazy.
Distant.
The memory of an old lover’s touch.
Frosty hands reaching in
To steal the warmth from inside.
Each gasp a steady escape of the spirit-
Eviscerating.
Captured in dead air.

The street swells and sweats; surrendering its own
sweet hot breath to the naked sky.

A sacrifice to the heavens denied;

The gift disappears unaccepted.

Unforgiving.

Unfeeling.

I need something to warm me.

Cashmere kisses my skin but I’m dying
for some heat.
Sun, sweat, sex—
fuck, I’ll take anything.
I’m tempted to grab a stranger
and hunker down for a week;
wrapped up in sheets and bourbon.
Surfacing only for momentary fixes of rations and reality.
I long for the weight of humid entanglement, to gasp from the ecstasy of it.

I miss you.

I need something to warm me.

The light has long since left me; it was never going to work.
It could never warm me being so distant.
Instead, I watch it fade
into the horizon with no pomp or circumstance
“It’s too bad”, I think. We could have exploded
if you had just given me a little heat.

I feel more at peace enveloped in the cloak of the evening.
Somehow in the darkness, everything is a little clearer.
Sharper.
Illuminated in its absence.

I am wide-awake.

I am frozen.

I need a drink.

A respite from the bitterness….

A tiny public house glows in the distance.
I step hurriedly to its candle-lit windows
and roll my eyes at the cliched behavior:
quite literally a moth to a flame.

The sweet musk of a cask-coddled elixir.

This is a start.

I need something to warm me.

Anxious and thirsty.
A little game of ping pong with a tea light.
The flame dances, clinging to life.
Its tiny tongue along the shadows cast on my face.
A valiant effort but still
a fight in vain
against an overwhelmingly gelid night —
It’s going to take more
than that to undo the damage that’s been done.

By some miracle or magic,

You are there.

You’re always there.

Did I conjure you?

My body immediately thaws at your touch – and we begin.

Wordplay.

Foreplay.

It’s all the same.

My single-malt in its twenties, and my sparring partner in his thirties.

The chill banished. Eternal Summer.

We radiate.

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