Fourth Letter

IV.

Sunday, overcast

Dearest Winter,

I have been attempting to describe you to myself and kept on failing, not for the reason that there is too little to say but for the reason that there is too much, because the moment I try to find and discover one true thing about you, it splits open into ten pieces and those pieces split into ten more, again and again until I am left standing in the middle of something vast and unmanageable, holding a handful of words that are nowhere near sufficient, a universe simply capable of expanding continuously until the end of time.

The way you tilt your head when you are listening. The way your voice turns cold when you are being serious, the way your hypnotic eyes alluringly express it's emotions (I know I'm insane). The way you exist in a room, not loud, not by demanding attention, but by making the room much much better simply by being inside it, like a fire makes a room better, the way you become aware of warmth you didn't know you were missing until it was there. For myself I am too heavy, but for you too light.

I want to say your name out loud to you and mean it the way I mean it in here. I want to say it and have you understand everything that is packed inside it, all the months, all the letters, all the enormous restrained thing that has been living in my chest since the first time I saw you.

I won't. I know I won't. But I want to. God, I want to.

containing myself, barely