You exist in this strange archive of my mind, a catalog of moments that never happened, places we never went, conversations that never took place. I keep them categorized by seasons. For example, we have never met in winter. You have never seen me shiver against the wind. I have never watched your breath thin and disappear, hanging on your words while you speak through the chill. I always thought summer was a season for love, but growing older I have found myself to be wrong about that, among other things. Winter is the most romantic of all the changes. In it’s desperation it holds no pretenses, never trying to be something else. Unapologetically it just is what it is in all it’s lovely fury. For no one ever loves the way they have loved in winter.