You want to tell her about it again, the day you fell in love with her in spring.

You don’t know why but you think that if you tell her about it, her bones might not feel so close to her skin; that she might not shiver when she closes her eyes.

You ask her to open them.

Why, she wants to know.

Because I want to tell you something, you say, I want your heart to hear me. 

She talks about winter again, tells you the ground is frozen and the birds have all gone home. 

You ask her what she means. 

She says she’s not sure, only that when the birds leave and heaven closes its gates to the sun, the cold touches her bones. 

She tells you it is dark. You ask again if she will open her eyes.

They are cold, she says, that happens in winter. Tells you it doesn’t matter.

Reminds you she can hear with her eyes closed. Reminds you that your voice echoes when the room is empty and she can hear you no matter which way she turns to the wall. 

You tell her the sun has come out. 

She says she knows you are lying, that her heart can always feel when the sun arrives; tells you her heart always knows the sun is there, even before she opens her eyes.

You ask her how long she plans to keep them closed.

Until the sun comes back, she says. 

You ask her when that will be. She runs her fingers across the floor, turns her head skyward, says she doesn’t know.