December was never one for subtlety.
He’d slink up behind me every year,
sprinkling snowflakes down my spine,
pressing the breeze into my knuckles,
tapping morse code love poems
on my window until I fell asleep.
But January was jealous,
always lept in too fast,
eager to get her own share of winter.
She’d woo him with her howling winds
and freeze me out with icy stares,
and they’d be hand in hand in no time.
I wouldn’t even feel the chill
until he was already halfway gone,
me with my heart in my hands
on the sidewalk, shivering until spring.