The Eternal Winter

I often wake up from dreams with disjointed sentences running through my head. When i gave them some semblance of sanity the last time, this was what they turned into:

Spring reigns for such a short time in life. Mine especially. What is two years in twenty? Hence, there has been only winter. Cold and desolate; grey and bleak. With it's rain and it's snow; it's sorrow and it's pain. No ebb and all flow. I felt her. She came into the room and it seemed her silence would taunt me. She stopped. She gave me a card. Out slipped a piece of paper. An apology. Never in my dreams had she sat next to me. She did. Never in my wildest fantasies had she consciously deliberately touched me. She did. Her skin and mine. Only surreal fabric separated us. Her clothes and mine. Her thigh and mine. She sat on my thigh. Her skin against mine again. Our faces this time. No fabric. Her skin and mine. Her cheek against mine. Her lips against my forehead, against my cheek, against my lips. Against my lips! Oh, against my lips! Soft and hard. Against mine! Against mine! Against mine parted now, as hers nibbled on mine. Bit them and licked them all at once. Then mine caught hers. Hers turned to granite. No longer was there skin against skin, lip against lip. No longer was there warmth. There was only a chill, all too familiar, in my bones. Was any move I made really that repulsive? She stood up. Leaving me sitting. Leaving me. The flowers shriveled. I woke up. It was winter still