Dear Wigleaf,

I am the boy in the snow, and you are the girl looking out of the upstairs window. I am writing love letters to you in the snow with a stick. I can't see the expression on your face, but I imagine—hope—you are smiling, blushing. When your cheeks are pink it makes my heart stop for a second. We have been having this encounter for generations. How long must I love you from afar? How long until you disappear from the window and my heart sinks in your absence? How long until the door swings open and you step out into the cold air, hugging your body, waiting for my arms to bring you close and share my heat? When that time comes, a blizzard will encircle us like a cocoon. When we emerge it will be in a multitude of loves, of colors.

Eternally,

Ryan






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Read RB's "Guilt Names."

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