I turn my key in the rusty lock, but this place doesn’t feel like home. Winters are always freezing, and seem longer than they are. Stagnant. My lips are chapped and your face looks pale in the watery light, but at least we are both still breathing. Every exhale hovering in the air like a ghost. We’re always saying to ourselves that things will get better, happier, we are also always reminding ourselves that we can throw in the towel, should we need to. But really, what good does that do? We can dig holes and lie in them, but what good does that do? I say I should get some rest and the air is cold in my lungs, frozen like the tips of my fingers, the solid earth, nails in the ground. I force the door open and it’s still the same. I’m always surprised when time keeps moving forward.