It's Snowing in April

It's snowing in April and he wakes up with her name like cotton in his mouth, small fibers snaking their way into those small spaces where gums become small teeth. The velvety smoke, the night coils up into nothingness as sunlight begins dripping slowly into a disheveled room. A plastic bag holding a handful of greenish soft pills is the first to catch the light. It glistens, peasants' emeralds. Loose papers and books with curled pages lay stranded across a small sea of greyscale clothing. He is a shipwrecked pirate.

It's snowing in April and in those tiny breaths between dream and reality, he reaches across the mattress looking for her. A laptop that had been running all night long receives the blind touch, it cannot register or reciprocate the misplaced affections on the tips of his fingers. He recoils, ashamed of the habit. The laptop is not offended.

It's snowing in April and the shower is cold at first even thought it's bright outside and he hasn't opened the shades but the weather app is saying it's a high of 40 and a low of 27 and he doesn't notice the snowflake icon next to the numbers but he does consider that Earth may be in her death throes and when the steam begins rising he allows his feet to be scalded and wonders how many more mornings he will have to wake up with her name in his mouth like cotton, like ash, like thin poison. Water paints his empty body in stripes and he makes a mental note of the traces of mildew building between the shower tiles. Soon they will have to be scrubbed clean, violently. He wonders at all the microscopic life forms he has to kill in order to feel clean. He promises it will end there. A serpent unties itself from his insides and slinks away into the tiny echoes of water on porcelain. He finds himself in the mirror, in the heaviness beneath his eyes. He remembers the bag of emeralds on his floor but cannot remember how old they are, and he can't remember how long he's felt like this, or what it was like before her name began to taste bitter. A list of things left undone begins building in the hollow of his chest. Beneath it, a list of things left unspoken, arranged in two columns: "for better" and "for worse". Breakfast will consist of a protein and a sweet. The possible combinations try and occupy the forefront of his mind. Boiled egg, half apple. Fried egg, dried apricots. Tuna salad, half grapefruit. Slice of ham, half apple. Slice of ham, bar of chocolate.

It's snowing in April and when he steps into the misplaced winter his senses are shocked but his sense is still detained. A chill wind slides into his sleeves and around his bare ankles, carrying with it small specks of ice and cracked leaves. Cheery neighbors wave from across a blanketed street, their mouthed words forming miniature clouds. They are among the magical many who have ground their expectations into dust so that anything and everything is simply a pleasant surprise. His face remembers to smile back at them, lips closed to protect his teeth from the cold.