crime rate.

Since there is no escaping this cold, in the different places where we are, I will turn to our thoughts and the memory of your voice to keep warm and most importantly to keep sane. Although in an afterthought I know I should try to avoid the memory of your skin, the memory of the warmth escaping from it when we are close enough, when we are locked in an embrace, or when we are sharing a kiss or when you are there behind me, your face resting on my shoulder; because then I float away and lose all sense of time and space.

Perhaps there never was a more futile attempt as inevitably all memory will trail a path towards it, like silent tributaries joining a river before losing themselves in the ocean.

Still, even if there's some misery in trying, I try anyway, as the cold keeps on going and sometimes relentless but not unforgiving enough that I will not miss you in its chill. Then I smile, as I almost always desperately fail in trying.

As I continue to continue, there's an increasing sense of foreboding that this will only get stronger and even more desperate as time passes; so unlike this cold of mid-January which will fade away like earthly pain come March. And only that ache will remain, something forever stuck in my soul.

For I know the secret in that ache: I get to be with you;
afterwards, the cold can rage all it wants and freeze anything it wants, I will only get to be warm.

And then perhaps Friday, I will get to see you again.