Dear Snow,

You are my dying innocence. Well, maybe you’re actually my perishing optimism, but either way, I’m kind of pissed.

You fall with no purpose. Not often do you appear as fat flakes of spun sugar, but instead harsh drizzles. I long to be covered in feathers of winter, not drenched with bleakness.

You’re too selfish to die. Even as the temperature bravely climbs upwards, all you do is melt. And the sun can only battle in the day, you spread yourself through the streets like poison, and set yourself in dangerous, slippery, and solid state. You may hide under the name “ice,” but I know that glossy sheen is you.

I stand up for you, Snow, I really do. I trick myself into believing that winter is my favorite season. I mourn your stained flesh as plows shove you into piles in parking lots, so people can get to their shopping of course. I sleep with a spoon underneath my pillow and hope; sometimes I hope so hard it feels as if my ribs are cracking.

What you give me, for all of my love, is dread. Potential accidents. Bent tires. Possible disappointment. Such anxiety that I ball my fists and whisper “I’m sorry” until the words make me feel ashamed.

Perhaps it is the romantic and poet dwelling inside the cavern of my chest that make me love you, whisper “it’s so beautiful” as if by reflex. Often, I feel as if our relationship is an abusive one. Maybe the truth is this: I am in love with the idea of you.

I’m in love with the idea of a lot of things, if I’m being honest with myself and the greyish white powder caked to the bottoms of my boots.