december told her to remember -- to stop. december told her to listen to its breath: cold and sharp and plump with tendrils of ice-shards -- to freeze her raveling sneakers and mold them into the tile. december told her to silence the pounding inside of her head and let her limbs soak into mist, to slither back to the slices of aluminum that speckled the traffic-swarmed road, to grasp the moment inside of her fingertips -- the moment that her life fell apart.
she hated december, hated the way that it stole what mattered most away from her, hated the way it plucked him from the ground and left her alone on the broken pavement, the marrow inside of her freezing into dust.
yet as her palms clenched the wavering memory, december froze and showed her his face, showed her his eyes as they sparkled under the moonlight, his smile blooming into tethers of stardust.