Another year has come, but it did not snow this year. Christmas went past, ignoring every person, every child, it is just a seasonal gimmick. Not worth my time, or anyone else’s time, although they make it their business to bring ‘happiness’ to their children. But who brings happiness to me? It might sound cynical, but that is okay. I simply want to know. My love, you would not bring happiness to me. Only the other morning, I visited you, and noticed your lie on your headstone. The day you died was the day before the date on the headstone.
That is no one’s lie but your own, dear. I visited you, read your name like I have done a hundred or more times before, while kneeling down to kiss the flowers. The flowers are dying again. Dead energy can leak into anything. Maybe that is why I spend what feels like forever in that cemetery. I must feed off the dead energy, like a vampire feeding off the pessimistic blood of a child on Boxing Day, as soon as they realize that they have to wait another 364 days for fun and freedom to come around again.
Their fun on the twenty-fifth is not transmitted to me. My fun comes from when I lie in the state of being half-awake and half-asleep, listening maybe to an album or to the radio when it plays those sad songs in the early hours of the morning, when the dew is fresh and inviting on my pale feet. Yes, my dear, I sleep outside, just like you, but, unlike you, I have no presence of warmth through the sod. I sleep outside the house, with the radio pointing at the window, so I can hear it if I strain. I discover new instruments when I am half-awake and half-asleep.
I used to lie totally awake, listening to you breathe beside me, but no more. Even if I was to sleep right on top of you now, almost certainly straining myself to not engage in the ungodly act of necrophilia, I would be unable to hear you breathe or even move.
You are probably little more than a skeleton in a pale dress now.
But still I would kiss you; I often told you I loved you to your very bones. Now I can mean it entirely and make it true. I would speak for you, move you, and push myself away from you, because I know that you would prefer it that way. I would give my life to let you live again. You would let me. For you do not care about me anymore. Not only because it is impossible for you to not care, but, if you were alive, you would not care.
But you are my sweet, malevolent snow angel. If it didn’t snow one year, like this year, you could turn up and make it snow. Maybe not physically.
But you could freeze me, break me, bend me, destroy me, hold me, push me, kiss me, bite me, kick me, bury me, maim me, torture me, gag me, bind me, bleed me, hug me, choke me, cuddle me, strangle me, twist me, scorch me, scald me, injure me, cut me, burn me, pull me, store me, delete me, spin me, punch me, drown me, suffocate me, hit me, poke me, tie me, kill me… but still I would love you.
I said I would love you until the day I die. That was, admittedly, a lie, however, I am not dead. And I mean it now more than ever. Only last week, I started writing you poems. I walked the seven miles to your grave and laid them there, my jittery handwriting a mess, and, every day after I put the poem on your grave, you would make it rain and wash off the ink from the paper.
Does my snow angel not want a poem? You don’t make it snow physically, I know that. But you make it snow on in my heart.