Memoirs of a Snowflake

I wandered alone, as isolated and aloof as the clouds and yet among them. A nomad of the skies, really. Then that vacant state changed. You make me marvel, you really do. When I was first falling and floating in the frost, tossed about by a sprightly wind, a blustery blow of blistering breath, I saw you. I marvelled at your intricacy. I had never seen anything so delicate. You were cold though. Cold and bright and, when the wind blew me more near to you, sharp. You sliced through those frigid clouds, leaving a confoundedly colder, miniscule wake of iciness in the air behind you. I followed in that wake, somehow feeling warm - contradicting my inherent temperatura franca - my standard bodily temperature of below freezing. Capability to follow, to swell with your swells, experience the afterwind of your concave pirouettes, gave me a feeling that I could not and cannot articulate. How could I explicate the rushes of your wind humming and blitzing through my perforated self? How could I encapsulate in mere words my petulant indifference - no - my utter disdain - for anything outside of you? How could I exhibit my unfounded, unformed thoughts of feelings? I simply followed, and hoped that was explanation enough. But you really curliqued around, you marvel-inducing flake of profundity. Then, suddenly, you divebombed. Your endothermic, aerodynamic plunge left me winded. You glistened, glitzy in the glare of garish streetlights. I was still suspended, in a wintry limbo. You were racing from me, though I didn't know if your sprint away was coupled with an invitation to continue to follow or was actually a pursuit of some other somebody. Then I saw you embrace a machoman - a real monstertruck. You had been pursuing the plow. My snowy stomach dropped like a weighty feather. You really craved destructive relationships, and this particular one had destroyed you. My osmosis-ed self knew that I would meet you again, when you were reformed, but that promise of future condensation was no compensation. As quickly as my marvelling of you had moved me, my mourning for you made me pensive. I blew around, at last drowning my soggy sorrow in a curbside mound of slush. It was a bit recompensory; self-pity is second to love. At least when you're a snowflake.