Seasons of my love
My summers are yours —
the heat emanating in waves from the asphalt,
the sun that never seems to dim,
the blue waters of forever —
all of these things are yours.
I spend autumn waiting for you —
looking to the moon each and every night,
telling her stories I retrieve in dreams
and writing poetry for the eternal fountain of youth
I keep for you.
Winter will see my heart break,
in the cruel, dead silence of midnight,
in the cold halo of the streetlamp,
I will gather my tears in vials made of stone.
I can almost taste freedom in spring,
as my heart awakens to daylight blooming,
and my mind says yes, it is time
to cast off these shackles at the end of day.
There’s always hope if you learn to walk away.
But summer returns, as Time dances on,
and summer belongs to you.
I see your face in the shady places
where my heart seeks refuge from the blazing sun.
Your smile is still the most beautiful thing,
and your eyes are mirrors that reflect so many lifetimes
of joy and sorrow and grace.
My summers are yours.
Summer makes my heart beat faster,
and it’s harder to sleep.
I imagine your name written on my skin
and whisper “I love you.”