I want critique.

The snow-coated beach asks for nothing. It holds its Summer memories but is ready to embrace the stabbing winds and blanketing waves of snow of a Canadian Winter. It's non-expectant, it's ambitious, it's... dare I say, human. It is constantly engaged with the grey skies that come with the season, in a dialouge more engaging than lover's quarrel.

I've always liked snow-beaches though, they've enchanted me since childhood, longer than I've liked girls I'd say. Yeah, that sounds about right; a good long time ago. There I stood, a figure of blacks and grays, draped with layers of clothing shaped by my pea coat. I remember how I wore that woolen hat to hid my greasy, matted hair, thinking I'd see no one and nothing of significance. Had I seen myself though, I would've felt nothing but pity.

At the edge of the shore, by the lighthouse, was a girl in teals and bright greens, she stood out more than me. I'd learn her name sometime later. Not then though, no, I knew I wasn't meant to then. I drew my name in the sand with a yardstick I found by some rocks, gave a look to the horizon and then to the girl. After that, I left. I walked up the wooden staircase out of the beach and onto the trail, and I walked that trail. Right up to my car, I got in hastily, eager to turn on the heat. After letting the heat reach my fingers and de-misting the windows I drove off to my home. I missed it.