snowstorm.

there’s something magical about being caught in the middle of a snowstorm.

letting the whites of the ghosts in your eyes blend in with the falling of flakes whiter than the purest cocaine

feeling the familiar cold against your ankles

the nostalgic inability to feel your fingers

except when the thorn bushes prick them red and bloody

the age old breeze that fills your lungs with crisp, cutting wind

razor blades in your chest when you inhale.

no matter how much you bundle up you’re still freezing cold.

but you love it.

it’s mystical.

it’s snow.

bright like a crisp, sad piano chord in your vision, the snow contrasts the pitch black night you find yourself entranced in.

dancing with the moon like a high school sweetheart at your reunion.

crunching under your heels, a symphony of instruments. brass letting out a soft snap, becoming a cacophony of crisp cracking in your ears.

and there you stood.

bleeding from your fingers,

in a snowstorm,

dancing like the devil in the pale moonlight.