history.

the boy with the sewn-on heart sat by the lakeside in his favourite spot, as he always did. the moon was fully lit in the sky, and the way it shone down on the water made it seem as if it's reflection directed itself straight to him, and he liked that. he thought it was magical, a natural beauty that felt, despite all the ugliness he found in the organs and skin and blood and appearance he owned, was magical only to him. something special that nobody would appreciate fully except him. something that made him feel a little less ugly.

the boy with the sewn-on heart stared out at the dim blue distance. leaves had begun to fall from their respective trees and fall to their new homes on the ground, where they would be blown away to even more new homes by the increasingly cold wind, again and again and again. every so often one would land on the boy, but he paid no attention. he was alone. alone. alone with the lake and alone with the things he had done and alone with his thoughts and alone with what he could not change. alone with regret. alone with a sewn-on heart that served only to fall away again and be lost and out of his control. alone with what he could not change. alone with the waves and alone with the moon and it's everpointing reflection and the sky and the stars. alone with the magic that existed only to him, in that spot. alone with the moon longing to attach itself to him, it seemed. alone with a flicker of a smile.

the boy with the sewn-on heart shook faintly as soft white snow erupted from the sky.
the lake had turned to ice now. off a bit, a seagull had come under the misfortune of finding it's way to freezing in the water, it's body stuck half out of the water upside-down in humiliating display.
the trees stood naked against the pale white sky, dimly coloured by the snow falling against them. they resembled mangled messes of hands, almost claw-like, reaching out at the sky in a vain attempt to wash away the grey that they had been dressed in.
the leaves lay dead on the ground, the snow falling to bury them, to entomb their fragile, crackling bodies and complete their process. the winter death. the end.
the boy stared out at the landscape before him, at the faint horizon; the dim remainder of magic that was slowly being painted into an entirely new, bitter scene. there was no moon, no stars, no soft sound of the water in the calm of the night. winter had come and winter was taking and all that was magic was hidden under it's frosty veil and the moon no longer reflected and no longer lusted in the boy's direction for the moon no longer showed and had been washed away and drowned under the empty shade of grey blanketing the sky and the snow blanketing the ground and the cold dancing with the wind through the air and all of these things that had one another and
the boy was alone in wait.
the boy was alone.
the boy shivered.
the boy was alone.
shiver.

Wake up, love.
The weather is singing winter, but together, we'll keep our hearts in the summer.
These places can still feel like they belong to us and still feel alive by our memories alone.





Not all is buried and lost in the snow.







the girl with the lost expression sat by the lakeside in her favourite spot, as she had begun to.
and as spring swept over everything and banished the cold and the frost and the snow and the grey and began to repaint everything around her in vivid fresh colours, the dead bird sinking into a beautiful blue grave as the ice parted and drifted away only to slowly become one with the waves, the dying trees breathing life again slowly and surely, colour flushing back into their rough skin, the stars poking their head out as if they'd fallen into a deep sleep and forgotten about their after hours job,
the girl felt loss.

the moon's reflection, though dim, stretched out towards her, as if to console her somehow.