Did I tell you we would grow old together, my snow-girl? Do not wipe—let your tears flow... I will send hugs and the colours of the seasons... I promised you all of those colours, remember? I told you we were going to grow old together, my old girl... You look like rain and snow, and you look like joy... Look, I hid in the heat— the most beautiful of smiles, And I know you to the point of pain, to your last turn... And I live through you, and I laugh with you, and I inhale you... If you go away, I'll rise up completely needlessly… You're getting old with me, I grow old with you, my snow-girl! You are my miracle! My life and love....
# To My Snow-girl <p>Winter holds you in its cold embrace, your skin like frost-touched silk, your breath a wisp of silver mist dissolving into the grey sky.</p> <p>I built you from the fallen snow, packed the whiteness with these hands, shaped you into something almost human— almost real enough to touch without shattering.</p> <p>Your eyes are coal-dark against the drift, small stones I found in the garden, and your mouth, that curve I carved with the edge of my thumb— it holds no words, no warmth, only the stillness of winter itself.</p> <p>When the sun climbs higher, when spring whispers at the edges of the cold, I know you'll begin to weep, your form collapsing into itself, becoming again what you always were: water, air, the formless things that slip through our fingers.</p> <p>But for now, in this suspended moment, you stand in the garden like a prayer I'm afraid to answer, like a wish I'm terrified will come true or dissolve completely.</p> <p>I visit you each morning before the world wakes, before the children come with their crude hands and louder voices. I brush the fresh snow from your shoulders, straighten what the wind has bent, speak to you in words that mean nothing and everything—</p> <p>the language of those who love what cannot love them back, what cannot stay.</p>
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