We had something special. I mean, that’s what they all say in the beginning. You spend so much time building up a city, sit on a bench and realize, “well, ****, the lights are blinding.” And that’s what happens. People spend so much time creating what they think they want. and when they’re stuck with it, they close their eyes the entire time in disappointment. Here we are, sitting on a park bench wishing we lived somewhere in the country where we could actually see the sky, touch it, taste it.

We wanted more, but we stayed quiet. Mostly we wanted different, but instead, we started apologizing. You apologized for everything under the sun. The way you clicked your gum when you were bored, how you talked to yourself when you were stressed, the way you walked further ahead than me. You were hurrying ahead of me and I never understood where you were trying to go, but I knew it was away from here. I wanted to say something, anything, to break up the monotony of the silence that enveloped us. But I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to argue, just scream.

“I want to go home.” You finally said one evening. “I hate these **** lights and I can’t sleep knowing the city is awake.” I wanted remind you that you had insomnia, that if we lived in the country and the world fell asleep as we laid our heads on our pillows, you’d still never be able to sleep. You’d probably say the silence was too loud. I could never win with you.

We created something so electric, so terrifying and you were closing your eyes through it all. “If I can’t see her, she can’t see me.” Right? Not. I saw you, I witnessed your every move. But, I stayed quiet. I let you pack your things into boxes without question. I let you fall asleep on the couch for weeks. “I just can’t sleep. You breathe too loud.” You’d say. I felt a scream inside of me. Insomnia. You had insomnia. And of course I was breathing loudly, I was dreaming of drowning. And you were the ocean. That’s how it started feeling from then on.

I wondered where home was for you? With your parents? Where they could tell you about all the wonderful things you could’ve done? I knew that wasn’t it, but I also knew home wasn’t here either. In this city with a thousand stories. In this city that never sleeps. In this city where things are always happening. I began wondering what I didn’t know about you, but I began wondering, mostly, what I didn’t want to know. How when you can’t sleep, you sigh and toss and turn. Toss. Turn. Sigh. Turn. Toss. Sigh. Sigh again.

I sat on a park bench. Alone this time. Staring at the billboards, I closed my eyes and gulped. I tried to forget the awful color of the boxes that surrounded our my home. I tried not to think about how you forgot to say goodbye. I wondered what you saw when you closed your eyes? Because I saw lights. And I smiled. Because you hated the lights here, I began to love them. I began to love crowds in small rooms just out of spite. I started opening my eyes, asking questions, speaking out when I agreed with something, speaking up especially when I didn’t.

Insomnia wasn’t contagious but I think you gave me every symptom. My doctor told me to lay back on the coffee and maybe take NyQuill if it got worse. How was I supposed to pinpoint when I would miss you, though? I couldn’t. I reached for the phone before I could find the NyQuill, dialed your number. Like riding a bike, it’s something you don’t forget. I winced as it rang, I shuddered when you answered. I had so much to say, I had rehearsed this.

“Hello?” I felt my bones realign into the way they were when we fell in love. Perfect form to fit beside you in bed without disturbing you. Perfect form to hold your hand without getting too close. A perfect structure to love you without saying much of anything. I gulped. I wasn’t at a loss for words, words were at a loss for me. I reminded myself this. I wasn’t at a loss for you, you were at a loss for me.
“Hello? Who is this?” “I don’t think either of us have an idea.” When someone is quiet with you, you begin to memorize their voice. You didn’t have to love me to know what my voice sounded like. You had to love me in order to listen to me. There’s a difference. You sighed, “Oh, you” There was a sigh on the end of the line and I thought about the way you’d do this when you couldn’t sleep. Toss. Turn. Sigh.

I hated it like you hated the bright lights and the city.

“If you don't need anything, then stop bothering me.” I shivered at the harshness of your voice. And sighed myself. I started from the beginning, in screams that echoed throughout my home. I went on and on and on and on and on about everything I had ever suppressed until I heard the dullness of a dial tone mimicking me. I pressed end.

That’s when everything went quiet.

You hated noisy, crowded rooms, the city, the bright lights. Now me. You had it all wrong though.

Because here I am in the middle of the city that never sleeps staring at the nights and listening to the voices around me. I wanted to hear everyones story, but all I could hear was your voice telling me to stop bothering you. Your harsh tone, the way it cut through the silence of your small home in the country. I bet you can’t sleep there either. I bet you blame it on the crickets being too loud or the moon being too bright. I was drowning and you were sighing over and over again as if to say, “Great, another mess to clean up.”

Just so you know, you have insomnia. Just so you know, I can swim. Just so you know, there’s a difference between listening and hearing. We choose what we hear. Just so you know, there’s a difference between looking and seeing. You can choose what you see. You can’t keep your eyes shut for months and expect them to be accustomed to the bright lights when you decide to open them.

we sat next to one another, neither saying a word.
i could feel your good, the blitheness of your heart,
the slight ache in your soul that begged to be heard.
i listened to a thousand sighs before you said a word,
we held each others gaze before we dared to touch hands.
and just like that we were giving, giving, giving.

i told you about my mother and her love,
how she sat me down to tell me she couldn’t see me anymore.
i told you about my father and how his love was late,
how he closed every door an ordinary l father would open.
i told you that you were the only love i saw in colors.
and as we spoke, i was giving, giving, giving.

you told me that you were ashamed of your loneliness,
how the ache in your gut came and went depending on the weather.
you told me about your family and how everyone dies,
and how the two subjects shouldn’t be said together, but usually were.
you told me i talked about death nonchalantly and sometimes you understood,
and as i listened, i knew you were giving, giving, giving.

we spoke softly of the past and eagerly of the future.
during those times i began to appreciate what was being said around me.
and i think thats how i knew i was in love with you forever,
because we didn’t need to kiss or to touch or to hold.
all we ever needed was someone to listen to our babble.
and we never did stop giving, giving, giving.

So, tell me boy with the cerulean eyes, do you remember our first kiss? You stained my mouth with a sunset. You left your name on the roof of my mouth and I haven’t shut up about you since. You left me sitting alone in the library. You left me picking dandelions. Nobody told me dandelions aren’t a flower. Nobody ever told me that maybe you didn’t love me. I just thought, “how could someone kiss like that and not be in love with me?” But you didn’t love me, I know that for sure. It hurts to leave someone you love, even if it’s just for a day, it aches to be without them. Now I’m stuck with your sunset in my mouth and any boy after you who thinks they want to kiss me will taste your name and vanilla. I think you should apologize to the next boy who thinks he wants to get to know me. He doesn’t. He doesn’t. He doesn’t. Getting to know me means getting to know you. God, I wanted to love you so badly. I wanted to kiss the corners of your mouth and listen to all your secrets. I hate you for ******* that up. I hate you for giving me the worst case of writers block known to man. I hate you for being my muse. I hate you for kissing me so hard that I thought the trees were talking. I loved you so much and now it’s not the same and I hate you for making me question my love. I hate that you felt the need to raise your voice to tell me you didn’t love me anymore. As if I needed to be hurt anymore. I love you only always. And I think that’s the worst part, dandelion boy.

These fingertips will never run through your hair the same way they did 192 nights ago. These olive eyes may never shine quite so bright. Snowflakes wish to rest on your eye lashes just to say hello and ask how your day is going. Stars shoot across the sky to show off their glow. They are not egotistical but they envy the way your smile radiates any room you walk into. The freckle on my left wrist matches the freckle on your right and I think when we held hands, they snuck kisses when we weren’t looking. I guess they learned from us. There’s love I want to give, not because it’s too difficult to hold onto but because I think you could use some love. The right kind of love that fills the room like apple pie on Thanksgiving. The kind that makes even the smallest amounts of distances seem like the other is a continent away. If people were continents, though, I’d be Antarctica and you’d be North America. I want to hold you like moon dust that I promised not to touch. Or maybe I’ll hold you like a star because though you’d burn a hole through my hand, you’d still always be enough for me. 192 nights ago, I looked at you like a broken promise might look at the naive victim. 192 nights have passed like everyone of those shooting stars the nights before I met you. I wished to be happy and they brought you. I was so caught up in your eyes, I guess I forgot to thank them. 192 nights have passed since I last ran my fingertips through your hair and 192 more will pass before I may even look at you like anything other than a mumbled goodbye mixed with unworthy forgiveness. 192 nights have passed and if you weren’t forced to see me everyday, you’d already have forgotten my name.

I know that our first date felt more like the first day of my life. I know that when you talk too fast you stutter. I know that our first kiss tasted like vanilla frosting and yes this is a good thing. I know that your hand on my waist feels the way putting the last piece of a puzzle together does. I know that you apologize profusely about your clammy hands and I know that you probably won’t ever quit. I know that your pinky is crooked and you’re self-conscious about it even though it’s one of my favorite quirks. I know the way your eyes flutter across the pages of some old novel that neither of us want to read. I know that if my knee brushes against yours, you won’t move your leg out of the way. I also know that I will take full advantage of this. I know that the hair on your arm stands up when I touch your knee with my fingers. I know your laugh from a hallway away. I know that you’ll laugh at my jokes even if they’re not funny. I know that your dimples match your fathers. I know that sometimes you get sad and you don’t know why. I know that when you laugh, your head falls back. I know that the freckle on your left wrist matches the one on my right and I used to think they kissed when we held hands. I know that most nights you think of me. I know that when I pass you in the hall, I always forget to wave. I know that you will probably take it personally. I know that your favorite candy is skittles. I know your favorite color is either red or green wait maybe blue. I know that you hate long car rides and you love caramel. I know that you’re always reading a book about some war and I know that if I bring it up, you’ll talk about it forever.  I know that you get high pitched when you get excited and your voice cracks. I know that when you looked me in the eyes today, I thought I was going to throw up, in the good way. I know that the first time I met your mother, I was so nervous I thought I was going to crumble into a thousand pieces on the ground. I know how I felt when you left and how I felt as if I were drowning for a long time. I know that it only took me a month to learn what patience meant. And I know that it took me over six months for my patience to pay off. I know that love isn’t easy. I know that when you rest your head on your pillow, you’re always too many miles away. I know I love listening to you talk no matter what. I guess I know a lot about falling in love, but at the end of the day, I know nothing about love.

Babe, darling, sweetheart… How does it feel to wear my kisses? How does it feel to be my warmth? Cheeks, lips, neck, shoulders… Even the stars spelt out your name, the moon held us together… I fell in love with you and it was like jumping from picture books to Shakespeare. Everything is so complicated now, like trying to find the big dipper at noon. I swore the trees could talk that day… The way the clouds stare at us now, the way the sky rumbles because of us, the way the grass dances in spite of our absence. I love to dance. I love the feeling of my hips swaying like the wind is in my hair like the world (you) is in near grasp, I want to hold the world (you). Why don’t you love to dance as much as I do? I want to find the largest field we can and dance with the daisies and forget what happened before all of this. I want to forget all the choices and how your glares felt and how I woke up in the morning letting out a sigh of utter disappointment. I want to forget all that. I keep trying to let go, I keep trying to kiss the sky to feel the warmth of the sun but neither compares to the way your lips kissed mine and the way your arms felt around my body. I want to climb more mountains and kiss the world (you) again and again until you mumble into my ear something silly about the way my hair always falls into my face then you’ll fix it and we’ll laugh. Oh, boy with the cerulean eyes, I want to feel the sun in my hair again, I want to feel your lips on my fingertips, I want to fall asleep to the sound of your inhale and exhale. I want to be closer to you, to feel your skin against mine, to feel the way the stars might when they explode. Honey, lovely, dear… Remember when the world felt so small, so effortless, when love was always returned? I didn’t know what I was getting myself into that day in March, I didn’t know how it would feel to rest my head on my pillow, swallowing back tears. Somedays I wish I had been less reckless, but most days I think about the way your tongue wandered my mouth and I remember that love isn’t meant to be held carefully. Will you come join me? Lay on the ground, listen to the world (you), watch the clouds. The clouds look like figures again! That ones a dog and that ones a lamp and that one… that ones my heart… The one floating by quickly, the largest one in the sky, the one that looks like the start of a storm. That’s my heart. I don’t want to be careful, I don’t want to look behind me anymore. I thought a lot about us when I was gone. Now, I think about losing you. I think of the last time you left and how I swore to my best friend that it was for good. I think of your kisses and how I want an endless amount of them. Now when I think of us, of the world (you), I think going, going, going.

I spent my time tying pink ribbons to my words hoping somebody would untether them.
Hoping someone would listen to my cherry flavored cough syrup poems.
I wandered around thinking up the type of person who might love me;
gentle, caring, soft and quiet.

Then you came along.

And you could undo any knot imaginable if you were given enough time.
You hated cherry flavored cough syrup and you didn’t understand poetry.
You spoke so fast sometimes I wondered if you even knew what you meant.
But you always listened to my rambles as if I were telling you the cure for cancer.

I went about my days wondering how I could have overlooked someone such as yourself.
It only took me twenty minutes to decide I only wanted you to listen to me talk.
I could taste vanilla on your lips and I wasn’t even kissing you.
I laid on my bedroom floor for hours on end wondering how it might feel to love someone like you.

I fell in love with you on March 10, 2013 when you laced my left skate.
You had a laugh like an early morning songbird; a benevolent smile as if it were always spring.
You kept talking nervously about your hands until I held them and you went silent.
This was the first day I ever thought about kissing you. From then on, I haven’t stopped.

You haven’t stopped knocking the wind out of me since.

You touched my thigh underneath the table and I think I knew then that I was done for.
We kissed on the ferris wheel and you tasted like vanilla wafers.
I think your name is stuck on the roof of my mouth because I haven’t shut up about you since.
(I hope it always stays there.)

You’re like the first warm days of spring after a harsh winter.
You’re so alive and it’s refreshing for me; who forgot what air tasted like.
I want to plant a garden in your heart and watch it grow peacefully.
I want to tangle myself within your vines; wrap myself within your liveliness.

But no matter how ardently I loved you, it was never enough.
There was always a misapprehension with us, a broken line, a word that threw off the entire poem.
I am not afraid of many things, but losing you frightened me to the point of madness.
I didn’t mean to shut the door in your face, I really wanted you to stay. I truly did.

You hated when I said maybe so I started saying it to every yes or no question you asked.
It was the little things that changed; you said my name like it was rotting in your mouth.
Our last kiss tasted like rubbing alcohol and I wanted to kiss you again just to remove the flavor.
I wonder what went was going through your head while I was breaking. (Where’s the glue?)

How little you notice when someone is here; how much you notice when their absence approaches.
The freckle on your right wrist, the quiet way you read a book, how you talk to yourself when you’re nervous.
You touched my hair like my mother did, but you left a deeper scar than my father ever could.
No slamming doors, just a quiet magic trick that left me wondering if you were ever here.

I didn’t want to show up on your doorstep years later in tears because I forgot to tell you... you’re breathtaking.
I forgot to tell you, the stars detonate because they’re trying to imitate your eyes when you laugh.
I forgot to tell you, your touch could heal an open wound in under thirteen seconds.
But it’s been a year and I still haven’t explained how afraid I am to love you.

We met again and your voice was deeper and your eyes were colder.
You still laughed at my jokes but it was quiet and aloof.
Is that the way she likes you best? Vague and jejune?
I never wanted to treat you like a poem; never wanted red ink to touch your stanzas.

Given the chance, I would love you all over again- and right this time.
I would catch your hair glistening in the sunlight and tell you, “you’re wondrous.”
I have spent a good portion of forever writing you into poetry.
I cannot apologize for not letting go, you’ve always been home.

Love me or not, you’ll always have arms to hold you, ears to listen to you babble, lips to kiss you foolishly.
Carry on, carry on, you’ve never been any less than extraordinary to me.
I can feel how alive you are, you’re more human than I will ever be.
(I love you only always.)

I love him. I've loved him since the time he tied my left skate in March 2013. And it's a love that aches and hurts and explodes. But it's also a love that sings and twirls and laughs for no reason. It's a love that has you crying in the bathroom on a Saturday night but its also a love that has you dancing in the shower on a Monday morning. It's a love that's left me with cramped fingers, dry ink pens and full notebooks. It's a love makes me feel like a thunderstorm. It's a love that makes me feel like a sunset. He's not a home, he's a person. A wonderful one. And sometimes people say things like, "why would you forgive him," or, "why don't you just let go." And I smile. I used to get mad but out of all the types of love this is, it's also a love that's flexible. It's not a love that waits or chases but a loves that's there. It's a love that shares shoulders and stories. If I've learned anything about loving you it has been that if I cannot love you as a lover, I will love you as friend. I will love you messy handwriting, always asleep first, bad haircuts and all. Our love is flexible. Our love is patient. Our love is what happens when you rub your eyes. It's a love that bruises and bleeds and scabs and heals. It's a love that asks, "how was your day?" And would wait patiently forever for your reply. How was your day?

It's not that I don't love you. It's the time I read my mom's old journals and every other paragraph included my fathers name. It's that he cheated on every girlfriend he had with my mom. It's that my mom didn't care she was a second choice or a one night stand. It's that my mother never talked to anyone about him after he got married to one of the many girlfriends. It's that she took twenty sleeping pills on the night of what would've been their anniversary. It's that he doesn't even know she's dead.

It's not that I don't love you. It's the couple I overheard in the bread aisle arguing over wheat or white. It's that I heard the woman say a lot of "she" and "****" and I saw her crumble to the ground. It's that he just shook his head and said he was sorry over and over again.

It's not that I don't love you. It's that my best friend is in love with a boy on the other side of the country. It's the morning she took a shower and cried over him. It's that he wasn't even awake to do anything about it. It's that he's always three hours behind and thousands too many miles away. It's that I mean both physically and mentally sometimes.

It's not that I don't love you. It's my geometry teacher, who brought up her husband when she taught me tangents. It's that she also brought up her husband when she taught me the circle unit
too. It's that she gets quiet and smiles after she talks about him. It's that he's been passed away for seven years now and she still has so much to say. It's that she still wears her wedding ring. It's that when she taught me special right triangles, I wondered what her laugh might sound like if he were still here.

What I'm trying to say is; It's not that I don't love you. It's that I do.

I wanted to be a poet, so I folded myself into an envelope addressed to the moon and asked the man what he thought about your sweaty palms after our first kiss. He was quiet for a minute or so before he asked me, "do you love him?" I gulped. As if my gulp was enough for him, he went silent. He didn't ask questions, names or numbers. He didn't give advice that made me wish I hadn't spoken at all. We just stood there for a very long time and he finally broke what was such a loud silence with a sentence you may never understand. He said, "you're not a Poet, you're a Lover."

A Poem For Each Of The Boys I’ve Ever Loved

Ⅰ.
sometimes your scent travels in the wind,
suffocating me like a nasty perfume,
leaving me to wonder if i’ll ever forget your smell.

Ⅱ.
you wore the sweatshirt you let me borrow a few days ago
i mean, i don’t even think you remember i had it at all.
it was just another sweatshirt in your drawer.

Ⅲ.
your handwritten notes sit in neat pile next to my bed.
it has occurred to me that maybe thats the cause of my nightmares.
but really i think you’re the reason for everything and anything.

Ⅳ.
you have the prettiest eyes in the whole entire world.
im satisfied knowing i was once the reason they lit up so bright.
I’ll never let someone take the sparkle in my eyes away again.

Ⅴ.
we used to listen to music together and we’d laugh a lot.
you’d snicker at they way i lip sang to myself.
and id laugh because you really didn’t care i was a ******.

ⅤⅠ.

most of my days are spent wishing you were still here
you never really know how much you love someone
until they don’t love you anymore and thats a sick thought.


(ps, each of these poems are about you and only you and always you. i miss you. love always, the pathetic girl with a big heart and green eyes.)

The ghost of a boy I once knew sits quietly on my shoulder.
He’s making me self conscious of what I write about him.
I know he can see.
I know he’s watching.
As my eyes flutter to the new him across the room,
I realize how odd it is that he reminds so few of the memories I do.
It’s almost as though I made him up in my mind.

(I probably did)

Though he’s small enough to sit on my shoulder,
I know old him does not mind one bit.
Whispering words of encouragement in my ear.
He always had more faith in me than I ever had in myself.
I know he only made me stronger.
I know he only made me better.
But I cannot help but miss the way he held my hand.
I cannot help but miss the way he made me feel.
I was the best version of myself around him.
I can honestly say he made me very happy.
I wish I had made him happy, too.

(I just hope he’s happy, really)

I hope that you buy that frilly dress you see at the store. I hope you wave to the boy that you think is attractive. I hope you laugh at any and every joke that you think is funny. Don’t be afraid to have a voice. Don’t be afraid to smile at yourself in the mirror. Just because you love yourself doesn’t make you “smug” no matter how many times they tell you otherwise. Wear red lipstick no many times people tell you that you look like a clown. If it makes you feel good, so be it. Read a book instead of your timeline. Take a walk instead of pacing your room waiting for him to message you. If he messages you, it will be there when you get back. Stop procrastinating, an hour of homework a day is better than a month of non-stop homework at the end of the school year. Listen to your favorite band no matter how “gay” your friends say it is. Make good friends. If the people in your life don’t make you happy, don’t allow them inside of it. If the people in your life are sad, try your best to make them happy. Keep in mind that no one can save you but yourself but someday you’re going to need a shoulder to rest on for balance. Ask for help. You are a speck upon this earth, but you can make a change. This world is big and not everyone is going to treat you nicely. That’s okay. Everything will be okay.

it's 10:18pm and my heart aches a little for your touch. it aches a lot for your touch, actually. it shrivels up in a ball and goes in the corner of my hollow chest and buries itself in sadness. it misses you, maybe even more than I do. after you left, you see, my heart and I have yet to be on good terms. we fight. we fight a lot. we fight about stupid things like starting up a conversation with you. stupid things like crying and letting it out and toughening it out. stupid things like that. now, this is not a midnight jumble of words but it could easily be that if it were midnight. now, I do hope you're happy and your heart and yourself are on good terms. I certainly do hope so.

When the ashes settle, perhaps you won't remember all the bad times. You won't really think of the mess he left you or the disappointment. You'll recall the beautiful times. Like kissing on the Farris wheel and holding hands because you're fear of heights (you didn't really have a fear of heights). You'll remember the small times. Like a corny saying he always said. Or maybe the way his eyes looked when he talked about his favorite sport (or his once, favorite girl). And they won't be 'little things' they'll be hurricanes. Theses memories will be natural disasters in the most beautiful of ways. Memories are so magical. They affect you in so many ways. And it's funny how we tuck the unhappy memories in the back of our mind. As if we're trying to save ourselves from the 'natural disaster'. Almost as though we're forced to see the best in people. But just like everything, memories are both good and bad.

r/l

he's everything you wanted. everything you wished for. he'll twist his fingers through your hair. and tell you pretty lies like "I love you more than anything". he'll laugh at your jokes but inside he'll think they're lame. he'll call you beautiful but also think she is too. he'll say too much when he wants to get out of a situation. and he's not who you thought he was, is he? but you knew when his lips tasted like sugar and his touch burned like a fire, that he would get more than a second or third chance for all his endless mistakes. because everyone makes 'mistakes', right?

Boy with the beautiful smile-
Sure, I loved sleep
But dreams couldn't compare
Not to talking to you until my mind screamed for rest
And the butterflies in my stomach settled

Boy with the amount of love to fill an ocean-
Everybody said we were 'perfect' together
And I always thought they just said that
But I believed it one day a couple weeks ago
When I saw you with her, your eyes were emotionless

Boy with crooked pinky-
Sometimes I intertwine my own fingers
Closing my eyes, losing myself in a daydream
Where your voice is more than an echo in my mind
And I even believe for a few seconds you're still here

Boy who called me angel-
I still write about you until my fingers ache
And still after that I keep writing
Because there's just some people you could write about forever
And darling, you're one of them.

Boy who listened to music with me-
I still listen to our song on rainy summer nights
As the sun goes down and my smiles turn to frowns
Sometimes (all the time) I wonder where you are?
How are you?

Boy who let me borrow his sweatshirt-
My favorite foods don't taste the same anymore
Not after the sparks of your tongue burnt my mouth
Not to mention, how you left my eyes lifeless
Foods don't even look appetizing anymore

Boy with the corny jokes and sayings-
Today I heard someone say your favorite phrase
It used to annoy me to no end
But this time I teared up because it was funny
And I was just to dumb to realize it then

Boy with the lovely blue eyes-
Your eyes haunt me whether I'm dreaming or not
And what haunts me more is the fact that
I may never see you again
While your off somewhere beautiful
Smiling and laughing with her

At least you are happy

(p.s. these are all
for, about, and to
you and always you
it will always be you.
I miss you so much.)

He fell in love like the changing of seasons. With new leaves and new snows and new beginnings and new growths.

There was fall-
With her simple thoughts and opinions
And her kind words to everyone
Not to mention her ability to learn quickly
(He was an unanswered problem on a math quiz)

There was winter-
Coincidentally, she was winter, with a heart like hers.
She was a challenge and not even he could conquer
Challenging herself to play every instrument there was
(Including his heart strings)

There was spring-
Who was the hopeless romantic
Wide and starry eyed
She always had a smile on her face and her laugh traveled
(He was the only one who knew how secretly sad she was)

There was summer-
Because he believed seasons changed
But people are not poems and this is just a metaphor
She was as cold as winter and a season between could not change that
(Summer love always comes to an end, Spring thinks hopefully)

So here I am, Spring, writing about a boy who thinks he can change girls like seasons. He wants to change them for the better. Yet, he leaves them worse. And I, Spring, was already sad enough before he came.