winter
his warm hands touch mine, and i get the feeling that everything will be okay.

spring
his lips lift the melancholy further from my heart each time they touch my own. now, i am sure that everything will be okay.

summer
his breath begins to smell like my father's had when he came home from work at night. my head tells me to run, but my heart holds me in place.

autumn
instead of using his hands to warm mine, he strikes me like a match. i dont light fire, so he tosses me away.