Fate of Youth and Beauty

I follow a single snowflake with my eyes.

I don't know how I can tell it from all the others; there are so many of them. I know they are all different but from here you'd never know it. My snowflake spins and twists as it continues on its journey to join its brothers on the ground. It is January, and the grass as long since disappeared under its icy blanket, giving the courtyard the appearance of a desert, which is fitting. It's been snowing all night and at this early hour no footsteps have yet marred its surface, which glitters delicately in the rising sun.

I have taken lately to rising before the sun; for I know that it as at this most ungodly hour she too will be awake. I pray silently to no particular deity that this day will be no different, and sure enough my wish is granted. From behind the cold grey wall she emerges much like the sun over the barren winter landscape; all reds and gold and radiant. Hair of burnished copper hangs in soft waves down her back and I can't help but notice that on these mornings that hair is the only soft thing about her. It contrasts so vividly with her dark black cloak and skin that is nearly as white as the snow she now marks with graceful footfalls, for her skin is not marred with the unfortunate spattering of freckles like that of her brothers. High above the grounds I watch from my small window as a single snowflake comes to rest on her cheek. My snowflake, I have no doubt. Only it would be so bold as to come to rest on such a face. Others soon join it, snowflakes that linger on cheeks too cold to melt them. This serves only the purpose of making her pale skin seem more colorless.

The cold of the glass seeps through the delicate skin of my forehead and I wonder if my hand would feel similar if I touched her cheek. Would it feel as cold as it looks? For her skin always looks cold, regardless of the weather. Could she freeze my skin as she has frozen my heart?

The others in the room begin to stir as the sun raises full and warm rays the colour of her hair filter in through the window and warm my face. Down in the snow she seems to sense this. She turns that head with its hair so familiar and her brown eyes meet mine and the should be green and the corner of her mouth turns up just a little and she turns and disappears again and though the day has just begun my sun has set. I turn away from the window and prepare myself for the day, wondering when I will see her next.

And we will go back to a world where I am everything and she is nothing.

And still I will watch her.

For she is unremarkable and that is why she is beauty.