Like spring, you were new life.
Most of all, the roses that
sprouted in my chest
and bloomed between my ribs.
Like summer, we were
clothes-free,
slick-bodied,
heavy-breathed.
Unsteady, eager to please, it was
being in the sun too long but
suffering the burn just to see
the tan over your skin.
Like fall, your drop in temperature was dreaded,
though certain, and happened
all at once.
The colours I hoped to see:
reds, yellows, all the inbetweens
crumpled under boots
on the ground, dull and brown,
raked away by disinterest
along with
wilted rose petals
that tumbled from my lips
instead of words.
Like winter, I long for
the newness of spring
warmth of summer
and the lasts of fall.
I brace the cold with a coat of thorns, memories tinged gray with the bitter sky,
and I wait for the next person
to appear to me
in the form of seasons.