... the poet rolled over to face his lover the wordsmith peacefully asleep with his face engulfed by the pillow. the wordsmith's lips, plush and glowing faintly rosy against the purple in grey light, looked like a child's, innocent, carefree, as if he meant to stay forever young, his forehead covered in tiny beads of sweat.
"what's he dreaming about, i wonder?", the poet smiled. happiness is what he felt. he turned to look at the february that began in the world outside their window. lured by the grey seeping through the violet curtains, he carefully got up and pulled one aside. indeed, it was the snow that was responsible for the dim light this morning, unlike the bright light that was the whole of january. the poet's heart warmed at the sight of snowflakes drifting around. he lit a cigarette and inhaled, imagining the smoke was the dance of millions of icicles entering his body, all adding to his dancing happiness.
"wake up, babe... it's snowing... let's go for a walk while it's still snowing."
the wordsmith found the slightest, unnoticeable-to-most lisp of the poet endearing and beautiful. caressed by it rather than words, still groggy from sleep, he opened his eyes to see his lover standing against the windows that had perspired in the night, streams of steam inside the double-pane windows frozen: the poet was beautiful, all lit up with an inner smile against the delicate patterns of impermanence. how vulnerable but strong, graceful but indomitable he looked, his spirit nothing but love. his eyes, his shoulders, his slim waist and thighs, the way he held his cigarette and brought it up against his lips...
how did it begin. they couldn't pinpoint the exact day or the hour they began to consider each other their own. they only knew that each time they met, they both kept feeling in tandem, hearing music and seeing colours, talking without talking and listening with their hearts. none cared for what others could think of them, or could say. and so they began, who cared for the past, for it was always now.
as they left their apartment building in the centre of the town, they held hands, oblivious to the fact that they were stared and, at times, disbelievingly jeered at by festively clothed straight couples, some with children, some with children and old folk in tow walking the streets as the tradition required all to do in the time and place they proudly called home. it never mattered that their home still saw them as mostly outsiders, they were a part and parcel of their home, as has been the case for millennia before them and as the case will be millennia after them. bubbling with the joy that the snow awoke in them, they walked and walked, glancing at each other from time to time to only convey the bubbles they had inside them. they had no need for words for both felt the same exact multitude of feelings that were mirrorred. the tiniest squeezes of gloved hands, infrequent glances were more than enough. with each step together, they kept falling deeper through the rabbit hole called love.