In the summer, it was too hot to know you. I spent the nights with everyone but you, crowded on the trampoline in my backyard. In the fall, you bloomed (too early or too late for spring?) into my cerebrum, every thought that crossed my mind. You stayed that way in winter, when maybe the cold never bothered me but you sure did, or maybe it was how I was moonstruck and frostbitten in lust with you. We will thaw in the spring, I feel it in my roots and branches and the way my heart will freeze over again (too early or too late for winter?). I don't want that, the way the image of you kissing her—just like how you kissed me, except with a fire the cold weather didn't permit— will invade the spaces just you (just you) did months before. I'll see your lips on her sober or drunk, awake or asleep, eyes open or closed. You are my sin, my soul, and my salvation, even if you love her (or the ones that'll follow) in the way I see you and you never saw me back. 525,600 times you played and plagued my seasons and my breath.