I did remember the feeling of apple picking season. I remembered the fall weather and what it was like to find the perfect one. The apples were of red and green, sometimes both, but colors that reminded me of warmth and the candle mother had lit just before dinner was served. It was cold that day but not cold enough for a sweater, just for apple cider and pumpkin donuts. The apple I picked was red, all red. I stood upon the ladder, feeling giant, I reigned over the trees and felt like howling over top of them. I remembered then, the applesauce grandmother would make. I would remember the first bite, the bitter taste of fresh apple, sour but sweet. Grandmothers home.

I wouldn’t like to believe I am cold. I am not cold. I am uncertain. They mean the same thing to you, I know it. I am tired. I am awake at 4:19 a.m. and the world is asleep. The moon just laid to rest but not for good only just for the hours no one needed him. I needed the moon hours before when we talked about our lives, its craters were deep he had aged since we last discussed the world. I felt that the world was in my hands at that hour, I must go do something good I thought only to lie awake as the fan chirped above me. I am not cold but I am uncertain. The moon told me my path was steady but who is he to say, he only comes out in the late hours. The hours no one seems to pay any mind to, the world is asleep.

I have come to a conclusion. The conclusion to all my worries. To my pain and my curiosity. I will not be good enough. I will ask you for your assurance. I will beg you to let me stay. I would never leave. They leave me. They run fleeing as quick as their feet may carry them... broken photo frames and torn love letters. I was just hoping you would stay...

It was December and the sun rested upon its cloud.
night.
I sang in the shower that night. I even combed through my messy curls. More pulling than combing. But I combed.
In the mirror. My reflection. It glanced at me and smiled back and even had the same beauty mark upon its lower cheek. We were the same.
I wondered what it was like to be the least favorite in the garden.
Did roses think lily’s were ugly? Roses were beautiful.
sad. Upon some time you would grow lonely. Tired. Un whole.
Empty. I was empty because I felt ordinary.
I was ordinary nothing too good. Not anything bad. Ordinary.
In afternoons walking past the roses I saw myself as a Dandelion. The ugly one.
The ugly duckling. The ugly flower. The ordinary.

Something about the way his eyes glowed in the pattern on the sun filled the room with an aura of something blue. Sometimes red. Others green or purple. But each time he filled the room. On days that were cold his heart grew warm. Though cheeks red. His hair was brown but white like snow on winter days. He reminded me of winter. Chilling but beautiful. Complex but so simple. Cold but warm inside.

Remember the way of the moon and how the seasons changed. The sun kissed the August season as the lakes warmed and the sunflowers bloomed. Or remember when the sun fell early but softly on the winter lakes. Frozen and fields white with snow. The changing seasons of May were what I’d remember most from my childhood. It would be summer and the joyous giggles of children galloping through fields would fill the air like a rain storm in April. Along the lakes we’d row to the ghost island, bones piling up in numbers unimaginable but, it was an adventure. A memory. The sunscreen burning through our cheeks we’d lie among grasses and wet rivers, longing for summer to stay forever. The winter months were soon but the blossoming flowers and handmade ice cream made us think that wasn’t so.

I thought he was the one... I was wrong. I am no longer a lover but a fool