The morning air is so crisp that it crunches between my teeth like glass. Biting and bleeding. But my mouth is so numb from the cold that I can only taste the welling copper. I can’t feel the pain yet. When I exhale the bloody sand is a pale mist that the wind takes away and the sunlight sparkles within.
If this aching could feed anything I would be a connoisseur. There’s an aftertaste of rubbing alcohol and bone dust. A hint of graveyard dirt.
If spring is for the living then maybe I’m the intruder in the Garden. Stealing glass apples like I was the first. I take a bite but there’s nothing it can tell me that I don’t already know. The Garden was always too kind to us.