Maybe We'd Live In London

It rains a lot, and in the winter the snow blankets the ground like a frigid sheet. Catching cold hearts, we warm ourselves up with warm tea, and scarves bundled around our necks. Your voice bounces in the air like the notes of singing birds or the strums of a guitar string. Your cheeks are pink, as Jack Frost nips at your toes, and you giggle at the way I smile. And it makes me smile even more.

As the memories flood through my head, I remember that you no longer occupy the same space as you used to. I no longer order two cups of Earl Gray, I no longer get to listen to the way you talk, or watch as you laugh at the perched birds. Jack Frost didn't just nip at you, he took a bite out of your lungs, chilling you to the core.

The hospital bills were overwhelming, but it didn't matter to me. With all the doctor's and medicine, no one could save you. And you passed away that morning, as I clasped onto your dying hand.

It rains a lot more than it used to, and the snow suffocates the air around me. The radio no longer plays our favorite song anymore, in this tea house, where I spend my days.