And now what? Is it briskly cold, to the point where the points of icy breeze pinprick the red burst of blood to rise in my windburnt cheeks? Is it warming in a foreshadowing of spring, so that you take off your coat and throw it over your arm before we've gone too far? Are we going to go too far? The line shifts when it's anchored in a relative term, and I am uncertain as to where it can be found this time around.
Uncertainty. And never a lot of words. I like the textures you bring to the moment and how you give it shape around you. You may occupy this space--not because you've claimed it, but because I find that you fit it so well. Ah, but there I've gone again, the flighty of mind and heart.
Let's skip all the other context. Inside of time or outside of time, it really doesn't matter. It'll be the same, either way. Where we are is here. I look forward to it.