Remember The Mornings

they said to remember the mornings. remember the strangely elegant delirum of waking up, stretching, your eyes on the ceiling, just remember the rebirth, being baptized in the last morning sunlight and the promise of a bright new day.

remember the feeling of a hot plastic cup on to your chapped, yet still cherry-red lips as you take in the image of glittering snow reflecting off of the rising sun as you walk. think of purity, think of clarity, think of hope and think of everything you would melt away.

and nobody ever told me that mornings mean nothing when your soul turns to ice, and obscures everything you knew in autumn, all of the red on the trees and the atmosphere that smelled like pine trees and cinnamon, the ice in your mind and heart takes it all.

but the thing I never realized in the winter, is that there's nothing else to remember. the only alternative, it seems, is rejecting their dreams of cherry blossoms and ocean waves. there are people who save lives, I know it, but to me, they exist on an invisible planet.

so when the lost kids come to me, shivering and hiding their bruised bodies in down jackets, I have nothing else to speak of except mornings. and every time, without skipping a beat, you can see their breath as they sigh and leave, and I silently wish I'd run after them.