Snowy Days and Lazy Mornings

By Ash Warman

I remember strolling home from work, the frigid

wind snapping at my lips, leaving cracks on my skin.

I remember you greeting me with a mug of hot chocolate with

a grin, eerily similar to your last, slinking across your face.

I remember hearing you panic in the kitchen as popcorn 

overflowed, while shower steam coated the bathroom mirror.

I remember slipping under our carmine weighted 

blanket, fighting to ensure the snacks don’t spill.

I remember nature documentaries mumbling, tucking my face

into the crook of your neck, the scent of cinnamon welcoming me.

I remember waking up to your silky voice

telling me breakfast was ready, how our coffee was almost done.

I remember drying the dishes as you washed them,

drenching both our shirts within only two minutes.

I remember you singing into a soapy whisk,

performing a poor rendition of my favorite song, “Hey Lover.”

I remember feeling your breath against my neck,

faintly, as you whispered goodbye.

I remember the rain pelting my lips and mixing

with my tears as I wandered home, knowing you

would never greet me again.