Fall
When you see something beautiful, quiver
before it. The Autumn leaves were hosting
a masquerade that laid a shawl over
your face. I said hi and you didn’t say
anything back, which made me feel full
though I hadn’t eaten a thing all day.
I thought it was sweater weather, but you
proved me wrong; wearing nothing more than skin-
tight jeans, Gladiator shoes, and a thin
blanket to keep you warm. And you made me
feel it might be wrong to touch your hand, so
I did nothing more than watch you watch me.
You, so poised, it was like you were sleeping.
I knew I needed to say something but
I felt I shouldn’t. Or even ask you
some off question like Where’d the summer go?
And you suddenly looked cold with pastel-
colored leaves painting themselves on your skin.
So I told you that seasons change and you
reminded me I’d see you again soon.
Winter
When I see you, I quiver before you.
I feel different, but you have not changed
a bit. I took a much different route,
skating barefoot across the lake because
the cold made me feel alive until hard
snow reminded me that I was close
to the last place I remembered winter
was beautiful. My breathing ceased when
I noticed it melting snowflakes that were
aching to land atop your seemingly
wind-burnt nose. You could never change, could you?
Which always made me surprised to see you.
Your smile was frozen on your face, which I
saw as a façade. Your blue lipstick and
bleach-blonde hair told me you hadn’t even
gotten to know yourself before the breeze
came and erased the remnants of the Fall
and made your sweater start to crack like ice,
or spider-veins around your shoulders. I’ve
never seen anything quite like it. I
wish I could have told someone. Anyone.
Spring
I feel like you could have forgotten me
though I still like to think you are thinking
what I’m thinking even though that might not
always be true. I lay down in my bed
counting neon stars that travel into
my window and out my bedroom door. I’m
starting to believe you were never real.
While I was gone, you were only resting,
thinking of Spring and wishing it could be
just like winter again. Today I saw
a girl with a veil of flowers in
her hair, reminding me that her flowers
would soon wither in warmth, but yours will be
forever frozen for me. Everything
can always be just as I recall it.
Or at least I hope. I miss you, don’t I?
I don’t want to, but I have to see you.
I start to remember things that may not
even be true: The way you would furrow
your brow at me when you were upset with
something, or always act like someone was
watching us. I guess that I can only
know you as well as I am supposed to.
Summer*
Beauty is Terror. When I see something
beautiful I quiver before it.* The
frozen figs clasping small snow-topped berries
have melted, leaving behind rotting shades
of brown, which convince me I could be lost.
Everything is different. Everything
is different—the words get caught in my
throat, making me choke when I see you. I
can see your eyes are elsewhere, and though you
have always been quiet, it used to make
more sense. Now I feel I have to explain
myself. Or just say something. Anything.
"Where’d the winter go?" I say. And you say
nothing back, showing me that seasons change
and we’ve changed with them. The smile on your face
has thawed, and my tears can’t freeze on my cheek
to remind me that I’ve cried for a girl
who had not even told me her name. But
I could never blame you for that which I
feel partly responsible. You were lost
when we met, and I could have brought you back
or told someone where to find you. But I
did not. And that truly terrifies me.
I wanted to tell you I’d see you soon,
but I see much less of you than I had
before, in the winter, and I knew you
would be gone by the next time I came back.
A poem written in iambic about what can be considered beautiful, and what it exposes about us.