The Cold

I step outside and I am immediately aware of her presence. She comes against me slowly at first; twining her fingers into mine, setting her hair to brush against my face. She is love, lonely, and comfort. She is unforgiving, without mercy, and quick to embrace.
“It has been a long time.” I say as she becomes more comfortable with me. She is silent though, as if she missed this in my absence. I feel uncomfortable as she claims me and I know I have places I should go. I should head to the car, or walk back inside, but I don't.
And here we are. She whispers to me. Her whispers flow over my ears, her fingers remember my face. I need her in a way that can not be comprehensibly described. I've missed her and she's kept a place for me. A place others would come to and ruch out of just as soon, but I stay, and breathe her in.
Memories tide in my mind. Three in the morning, me only 16, bare feet against her floor. I look up and see the smoke from the wood stove form a ceiling over me. The moonlight filters through the canopy to show the trees around me. It shimmers in the night, and as I remember it, that was when I lost myself to her. I breathed her in until it hurt. I wore nothing but my jeans when I came out that night, and she kissed my shoulders. She brushed her lips down my arms and wrapped her arms around my bare waist.
I was enamored with her. How had I lived without seeing her beauty? Or more correctly; without feeling her beauty. My breathe burned with her touch, and I longed to stay with her, only it was not meant to be. I separated the firewood she had wrapped together and held it against my chest. I took the wood inside to rekindle the fire in the stove and send her away.

Memories ebb. She invites me stay, to continue basking in her quiet beauty. She asks me to see what others hide from. I am at peace when she holds me, but she is a harsh lover and to be with her is to die without waking. So I exhale and see her with that breath. I love to stop and feel her, but I can not stay with her too long. This is part of her beauty. She sees the world in terms of her existence, and knows nothing of my frailty, cares nothing of my temperate frame. All she sees is her desire for companionship. And all I want is to accompany her.
“Always this time of year.” I say and I invite her to walk with me to my car. I don't know that others can understand what we have, what I feel for her, but this is real. Her reality is made plain in the rising of the hair on my neck and arms. What beautiful cold that holds me in the November night. What pure proof of my existence and desire to exist.