she liked brushing snow off of her shoulders and the inky blue i left her every valentine's day. she liked the crisp feeling of a winter morning and the smooth blade of roller skates on sliced ground. she liked hearts shattered by ice, held in her hands frozen and torn apart by bitter cold. her hands froze, too---her fingers were always shaking with frost, and she never wrote if she could help it.
i faced the sunlight, and i was happy. but the ink would stain my hands on every february fourteenth. it dripped and oozed and bled sadness onto my nimble palms. my hands were warm at the tips, hot in their centers. they could write a thousand letters and craft words like wine.