Slipping away from my fingertips once again.
Beautifully breaking.
Fantastically falling apart.

Days spent pacing with your shallow heart racing just praying for an embracing.
The seasons will keep changing.
Waves will crumble to ashes.
Snow will melt into lungs, indirectly letting us inhale the wintry, frigid weather.
Flowers will be reborn once again and embody scent into our minds once more.
Dreaming of a day when I could rest in the canopy of dogwood and sweet honeysuckle.
Earth is where I'll remain, one with the howling winds and piercing air.
Flowery Aprils and Brutal Novembers.
Burt me regarding the sacred time of my last breath, be it in leaves of maples petals of tulip, crisps of December frost or maybe even crunchy sand in between my toes as told by the trodden beaches of Bora Bora in July.