We hadn’t spoken a word – well, discernable word – for an hour. My fingertips filled the void of silence, grazing your skin, circling your collarbones. I rested in the crook of your neck, forehead pressed to your cheek. My eyes followed the lines I drew on your skin. I lifted my chin to trail kisses up your neck before meeting your gaze with my own. You let out a breathless, hi. I smiled. Hi.
I kissed your forehead and shifted my weight to my elbow, my eyes drifting beyond you. The flurries outside drew my attention, illuminated by the glow of lamp posts lining the road. In my last apartment, our entanglement would have been daring. Accidental eye contact with my neighbor compelling me to take a long route home to avoid further encounters.
But I moved – partly for the view, to watch the flurries unobstructed. To lay beside the window without worry that someone might see me – us, our bodies folded together, tangled in the sheets.
Though the sun had already set, I could still make out the contours of the mountains. Their silhouettes merging with the shadows of the pines beyond the town line. While the pine branches sank, burdened under the weight of the snow, their roots remained anchored, untouched by the seasons.
Pressed to your skin, the bitter wind was seemingly far beyond the thin division of the single glass pane. I stopped dragging my fingertips. Instead, draping my arm across your stomach, as though to tether us to this moment.
I gently kissed your lips before lowering my head to find its place beneath yours, closing the space between us. One of my hands grasped yours, interlocking our fingers. For a moment, I imagined that the warmth between us could be as enduring as the pines.
But we would slip away like flurries on the asphalt—briefly tangible, but impermanent.
Writer | Gabriela Weaver ‘25 |gweaver25@amherst.edu
Editor | Claire Macero ‘25 | cmacero25@amherst.edu