It felt both winter and spring,
at the same moment,  
when I was with you.

You were the wildflowers,
I held so dearly,
and sadly,
wilted away,
they died.

You hurt me time and time,
the numbness of feelings,
Or the sense of everything.

Yet you wished for me,
to be pure and true,
yet your cast flew.

The fault is on me, this time.
It has always been since the beginning of time.

It is killing me dreadfully,
this reciprocity,
in a beautiful way,
only to be fathom by a *******.

Only keeping a promise no one is sure of.