Precious and fragile things need special handling. But I suppose it's too late for that now. My knuckles are already cracked and bleeding from the merciless onslaught of a raw winter draft. As I slide my hands in my pockets, I look ahead to see the path my footsteps have traced along the fractured beams of moonlight in the snow beside the frozen river. It's a quiet night, without the creaking of dry trees or the erratic flutter of bird wings to interrupt the silence. The stars are out tonight and there in the still, all I can feel is tranquility. Each exhalation spawns a frosty cloud, which makes the night feel colder than it really is. The snow beneath me feels like quicksand, making it increasingly harder for me to reach the clearing. Our hideaway.

I think making this midnight pilgrimage might make me forget about you. But I suppose it's too late for that now. The stars we painstakingly carved into the tree on my right are crusted with ice and gleam eerily in the moonlight. How I miss those days. I convince myself that my eyes are watering due to the intensely harsh contrasts of my surroundings, and I brush the tears away in the same careless manner as they appear. To someone else, this particular setting wouldn't seem extraordinary in any way. To me, it is heaven in the truest sense.

The frigid atmosphere numbs my chest to the extent that I can no longer feel my heartbeat. Whether my heart should be pulsing with the exertion of trudging through the snow banks, or the pain of recollection, I'm not sure. But I don't care either way.

I see you appear on the other side of the river through my peripheral vision. I'd like to think that you're here for the same reasons I am, but that's unlikely. You were never one to reminisce. We cross the narrow embankment at the same time. Neither of us says a word in passing. Nothing interrupts the perfect silence.

As our hands brush against one another, incoherent images of us intrude upon my wonderful anesthetized state, and I realize that the only thing left of us is history built on dust. And in the glow of the moon, you begin to disappear from view, and I feel like I shouldn't be here anymore. I could have said I was sorry about what happened, but I suppose it's too late for that now. Then, as if in a dream world, we part ways for the last time. But I know I'll never forget you.