The breeze feels warm and musty, drops of rain gather in her glasses fragmenting the view, but she walks on. The sound of the harmonica is in her ears, muting away the noises of the street. She feels pensive and nostalgic, almost sad with joy. She feels lighter, looser, older. And sheds a tear or two. Something is different this December; there is no snow after all.
The rawness of pain is melting; the darkness of the night is gone. She looks up to the road. Is that a crossroads? She thinks for a second where to go. Oh no! she is lost. Is it because she opened a can of worms? Oh! so many worms crawling in the bedroom floor. She sings to the harmonica sounds. The rawness of pain is melting, but is not gone.
She sees you in the distance running along the shore. Dressed in red and white, you grin to her and say hello. Your hands are sweaty and your hair is tangled; you are tired of waiting, afraid of her feelings, afraid of her love. But she’s coming, she’s coming, she’s coming, she’s coming to say hello.
Something is different this December; the snow is gone, the darkness is gone.