I could talk about the temperature of your skin better than the rapid change in the weather outside; that was starting to get cold enough to wear a thick woolen jacket.
I could talk about the warmth of your lips better than the warmth my feet would feel when it’s all snuggled up in 3 layers of socks and my favourite brown boots.
I could talk about the way your tongue brings me home, better than my mom’s Christmas cake that she made from scratch with raisins and brandy and love.
I could talk about that lock of hair that gets swished to the other side of your head on a windy night when you’re out for a stroll; better than reciting my favourite poem.
I can’t do the alphabet backwards, but I can memorize every scar and birthmark and remember it off the tip of my tongue. And if anyone were to ask what my favourite parts of you were, I would start with your eyes and then the birthmark on your collar-bone and then your small lips and then maybe the cute birthmark that I imagined you’d have on your derrière.
I could talk about how I fell in love with winter my entire life and then openly and proudly cheated on it with you. I have loved winter for as long as I could remember, from the cold winds to the warm liquids that make you feel like a Christmas tree inside.
But now, I could only love winter as much as I loved you.