four years is sixteen seasons
is forty-eight months
is one thousand four hundred and sixty days
for years i've been aching 
been waiting
being chased by a shooting star
i know why the gold of your skin haunts me
you are a black hole waiting to happen
and it's already been four years

A few years ago, my family and I drove up to Stowe for spring break. I remember the car got colder as the hours passed, and if you timed your naps just right, you could wake up in a completely different world than you had fallen asleep in. It was so comforting to be surrounded by gray and white and brown, the way winter should be colored. We stayed in a log cabin big enough and stately enough to be...