The Piano is Not Firewood Yet

Friday 24th February 2012
14 notes
God I want to write this novel so badly.

Spring and Winter were arguing again. I heard them as I brushed my teeth, and prodded the space between my two front teeth contemplatively. Spring had crawled through our open window as the sun uncoiled herself in the sky and spread herself like golden butter. Winter had woken up to find her drinking coffee in his kitchen, staring ruminatively at the grains floating at the top. She’d made herself at home, had Spring. The pot plants outside our door had come to life, the milk bottle was not empty, there was cinnamon in our herbal drawer. Insinuated herself, Spring knew how to make Winter spit shards of ice. The breath in my lungs had frozen because he’d pressed himself into the ground and refused to leave, snarled frozen angry words at Spring who leant against the fridge door, reading our letters to each other and laughing.

“You know it’s time to go.” I heard her saying gently. I knew that her hair was wreathed in the blossoms of early warmth, they unfurled in her like poetry.
“You’re a bitch.” Winter was poisonous, vulnerable and melting. He made me sad.
“I greet Summer like she’s an old friend.” She reminded him.
Winter’s stony silence froze the walls but she chased him away soon after did Spring, laughing all the way. She’d thrown a flower or two at his back as he fled into the early dawn and I heard him cursing all the way. He forgot to say goodbye, did Winter, but the seasons were terribly forgetful and I had learned to accept it. I’d whispered it after him and I only hoped that he’d heard. But bitterness was a strange thing, and Winter was so goddamn full of it.