Your familiar face is nice to see, though I know how it always goes. I'll resent you in a week.
It's how it always goes.
Every visit, you shine up your grays, whites, blues, a chorus of hues that compliment you well. You stand sparkling majestically before me, clean, naked. I have always been jealous of your beauty. You clean up good.
I'd like to say that you embrace me warmly, but nothing about you is warm. Your cool touch causes spasms of shivering in my abdomen, leaves my fingertips tingling, like the caress of a new lover, or the recovery after an electrocution, or that feeling you get when you're young, the one where you're convinced there's a murderer hidden in the shadows of your room.
Lover or murderer? Sometimes they're the same thing.
You're awful, you know that, I abhor you. Your arrival takes its toll on everything; green is crushed under the awesome mass of white. The skin you touch undergoes a progression of pallid beige to a raw, flayed red. Why, you even make the very sky drain its face of all colour.
And every year, I wonder whether you'll be as mean, whether you'll always have that secret motive of yours.
You never disappoint, do you?
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