Prose Poetry, Flash Literature

The Bitter Cold

Do I have a fever?

It’s been a bitterly cold few days in the Paris region and much of France. I could be dreaming of sunshine and beaches and warm sand and laughing seagulls, but I’m not. What I’m dreaming of today is an even colder cold, the kind that freezes your blood and turns you into a statue of ice. I dream of snow and endless, eerie nights. I dream of blizzards and violent winds that make the trees whistle. I dream of Sweden and its houses painted Falun red. I dream of frozen lakes and deep forests inhabited by owls. I dream of the smell of wood and Diana Krall’s gentle caresses on The Look of Love. I dream of seeing the flame of the candle sublimate her eyes so that I can surrender to them forever. But reality is catching up with me, I’m starving and my forehead is hot. What am I going to eat tonight, and what am I going to do with all these dreams?