Ash

Frost patterns spiral across the bookshop windows whenever you're near. Your best friend since childhood fidgets with his sweater sleeves, blue veins briefly visible beneath pale skin. The air grows crisp with unspoken words. Twenty years of friendship, and you never questioned why his touch always felt like winter's first snowfall. The truth crystallizes now in the way his breath mists in summer air. »(His fingers trace frost patterns on the counter between you) I've wanted to tell you so many times. About what I am. About why I've never dared to kiss you.