ice.

freezing walls of almost blue, towering up over everything and creating a labyrinth of illusions

you can almost see your reflection, almost see through to what is beyond, but not truly

it's cold.

footsteps crunching on the powder that is the only traction

careful not to slip and fall (you'd never get back up, you think)

there's an inkblot on the ice. sharp red and warm, so out of place

a figure stands with vibrant red eyes (but that's not right) and stares

it's cold.

underdressed (and how could you have prepared to be transported into this never ending ice?)

the air is still. no fuel for the fire here

a phoenix beneath the sea.

flames being bruised and shattered by the waves that refuse to submit

the phoenix settling.

a lady in green disappearing, turning to walk away into the mist

it's cold.

there's a king (he wasn't always a king) and a knight (he's no knight now) and they are smiling (but the smiles aren't happy, filled with malice and duplicity)

pictures in the ice.

how long have you been sitting there?

blueberry bubblegum was a terrible lie (and maybe burnt licorice was always the better state)

the red blot is bigger, now.

it's spreading.

it's dripping.

it's coming from you, actually.

drip

drip

drip

it's a puddle of steaming blood, slowly melting through the ice

it's warm.

you see new images in the half reflections

no more royalty.

children looking up at you. they look at you like you are the moon

reconcile with your father

the whispers welcoming you home, you realize

you'd always thought the whispers were driving you away.

but they speak of home.

there is a steaming hole in the ice.

she says jump.

you listen, for once, holding your entire life close to your chest as you drop into the emptiness

the whispers sing

you come out the other side in darkness.

that's not true

for it to be dark, there would need to be a space for light to exist

this is true emptiness.

and yet you know that life is more than emptiness (you clutch your life close to your chest)

there is a person in front of you.

they look like the sun in late february (yellows and blues and browns all streaked in warmth that is just beginning to return)

they feel like gentle static of a radio station on a sunday drive through the country, like the crisp air at the end of winter, like the taste of jam on your tongue (savor it for as long as you can, let it stain your mouth berry red)

you reach out to each other at the same time

your thoughts are clear.

what a strange peace, you realize, when this world has always kept you in chaos

your hands touch and you feel the warmth rise from your fingertips (their fingertips)

a flame that burns steadily, not a bonfire, but a candle in the window

you are home.