and his smile,
like crystals,
did not
appease her
until November’s
excited cheers.
(There were other crystals that interested her, you know; and she thought them beautiful. They hung above their heads on Thanksgiving, brightening the eyes that regarded her so fondly. Had autumn heard her prayers for love?)
and his words,
like shivers,
did not
grace her
until Winter
drew near.
(There were shivers that overcame her, too; and she thought them ironic. For something meant to warm her, she became colder than stone. Perhaps the seasons did not hear her.)
and his absence,
like caverns,
did not
rouse her
until April’s
many tears.
(There were tears that fell from her, too; and she thought them ******. For where rain gave new life, the sobbing took hers away.)
and his love,
like air,
did not
scare her
until Summer
was seared.
(There was a time when air seemed irrelevant; and she believed she could live life off a little. Imagine her alarm when the air was no longer hers to breathe, having been a gift to another.)
and it,
like time,
did not
distress her
until rejection
was clear.
(And it was then when she was swaying there beneath the chandeliers, teeth chattering so loud they overpowered the thump of her broken heart, and her eyes were so dry she could no longer weep, or even breathe through the emotion that threatened to clog her throat; she realized—)
that he,
like autumn,
did not love her
enough
to tolerate
another
year
v.g
Autumn is always a hard time of year for me.