It's getting colder, and I don't remember feeling quite so unprepared for the winter months, but then it's been a long time since I've had to spend snowy nights so alone. It's funny how things sometimes take weeks to wither away without proper sunlight and care, and sometimes it takes no time at all, and funnier still is how easily fresh life springs up before you know it, but my hands are too clumsy to cultivate gardens, so it's best left to greener thumbs. More suitable tenants can work magic on the dilapidated grounds I leave in my wake, and it will be good for me to make a den of my own for a season or so. Maybe if I breathe deep enough, the ice will thaw faster, and though the chill bites as it goes in and comes out, and though my lungs have atrophied from neglect and from stifling and get sore too quickly because I can't control my speed or volume, I'll do my best to at least clear away some fog. My fingers may be too shaky for delicate petals, but I can be useful, I promise, but maybe only in the hot months when everything is wilted anyway. It's cold, inside and out, but not yet frozen, and I can always set it on fire if it comes to that. Matches on dead leaves, and so much pressure, but coals are more useful than diamonds. I understand that. I'm okay burning in my own fires. It's my tundras that I can't stand. I just want to create instead of kill the things in my path, and in the ashes we all fall down, but it's not so hard to get back up, and the fall might be longer and harder and sweeter next year.

Days have passed since I last saw you smiling
Sometimes so tender but always beguiling
New voices have joined mine since I left to roam
But I will think of you while walking alone

Take me back to the days when I loved you
Take me back to our era of stone
Take me back where we danced 'round our graveyard
When I needed your flesh and your breath and your bones

Thus far I've managed not to share my soul
But when you look at me, I lose all control
You saved me from myself, from rotting, from frost
I'll keep you from harm's way, no matter the cost

Take me back to the days when you loved me
Take me back to that long country road
Take me back to a time before silence
When I never would wander, not too far from home

My body aches for the warmth of the sun
My legs are trembling, and I can't wait to run
None of my fears are so bad in plain sight
And I've learned that wrong turns can often be right

Someday I'll come back to the loved and the loving
Someday I'll return and see what I find
And we might laugh, we might dance, we might crumble
In the soft arms of death, we may gain peace of mind

I hate when it's like it means something. Reverberating sound and both hands on my face make me more smitten than I'd like to admit when the lights are on. No one has ever stung me that way, been so willing to break me when I'm not expecting it, and I hate how quickly those cruel arms come to my rescue, and I hate that I can't get enough of it. Finger tips slowly crush the air from my body, and needy, greedy teeth leave me shuddering in a place where I feel incapable of much else. Then everything is sweet and secret, and as much as I tell myself I want to run, I can't help but look over my shoulder to make sure I'm being chased.

It's never quiet there. Nonsense scares away the silence, and even when no one is talking, my insides are full of erratic thunder and frantic commands to fight and soundless, hot pleas to be conquered again and for the first time. Oh, and how everything would be different had we won those initial battles. How much worse off we will be if we win the war. At this rate, victory will be ours, but I hope to lose some blood before we decay.

And why am I still fighting anyway? If I win, I lose, and if I lose, everyone does, so wouldn't it be easier to go AWOL on this whole operation? The thing is, I hate to lose, and if I am named champion, maybe a joint defeat won't be so terrible. It would ensure at least a few more bruises and maybe a cut or two. Who knows? Perhaps I'll make it over that wall in record time. For now, go ahead and stand too close, stare too long, touch too often. I like watching those things inside make another squirm, and as long as I'm writhing under a strong grip, I'm satisfied with struggling.

No, it's never quiet here.