by David Andrés Alíx
The weather changed like a backdrop exchanged with black for white, allowing renewed appreciation of the foreground subject matter.
Like the sun positioned exactly opposite of where it had been when the picture was taken of you wearing a pensive face, motionless, punctuated by your tomato red sweater.
The seasons change making our spirit seem more stark, more naked, though remaining the same.
Robbed of our crutch, our pill, the transition in our d.n.a., bereft and seething; rogue and renegade.
No spring, no autumn, making the thorn we bear throb with greater magnitude, punctuated by the bitter backdrop of cold, dark, night.