I'll never forgive the spring time and the hope it would bring me,
Everything rising from the ashes of barren months that killed off all salvation and somehow, some way, finding its way to the surface once more.
I'll never forgive the spring time and how it felt like coming home,
How after months of anguish and clenched fists smashing on tile floors I felt the warmth of the sun radiating among my skin, among my scars, among my skin, among your touch.
I'll never forgive the spring time and how hearing branches crack on off-beaten trails covered in remains of broken limbs and harsh winds continues to make me wince,
Because leaping atop egg shells has the same ring to it as the rubble we dance upon.
I'll never forgive the spring time, and the way it came again, and again, like clockwork it came crawling out of snow drifts and found its way into my hair with bony fingers of skeletal promise. Touched my heart with verses sang through wind chimes, beautiful for a moment and forgotten again until the sun dial came round once more.
I'll never forgive the spring time and how it made its way out too soon. How comfortable always became unbearable and you couldn't stand the summer heat the same way you could an April afternoon. How flora only holds attention captive at first glance then never paid mind to again. How you only had to blow dandelions once to get your fix.
I'll never forgive the spring time, how its hope became my home. The routine of its essence, how your love is the most familiar spring I've known.
How I had always stopped to admire spring, but spring never admired me.
How I saw it rise and fall again, but now spring shall no longer be.