Like everything I love the most,
I too, wither among the frost.

It bites at my skin
flows cold through my veins
like hospital iv

They call it seasonal
They call it affective
They call it disorder.

I call it "aching for the warm."

I have always hated to see my breath linger in the chill

as if to see my own exhale
is to see my living
is to see my eventual end.

Too many things die when the snow falls

I pray that I will not be one of them.