summer never truly loved her she thought kicking the last soft waves of the season like they were a pile of autumn leaves
closed her eyes from the sunrays imagining the oranges and pinks of sunset painted by the trees answering to the cold whispers of the wind
winter they call but still, summer never truly loved her she thought but as the last soft waves crash to her feet the little bubbles like the first fall of snow
she thought of the heavy footsteps of mud and the snow-covered boots on the porch the subtle smell of pine circling around the divot on the couch the bubbles from soapy dishwater waltzing in the kitchen it means you're home
and though summer might not have truly loved her it never took away her metaphors to describe what love looks like and love looks like dry leaves scattered like freckles on your cheeks on the old cobblestones we walk on on Sunday mornings
it's like a pair of warm socks, hot cocoa and marshmallows, and Christmas carols it's waking up right where you belong like blossoms greeting the first sunlight after months of snow and it's summer when the agony of waiting under the scorching sun learns to turn into
patience love is these seasons giving way to years and patterns we will never get tired of summer might not have truly loved her but she'd hoped that one day you truly would and you did.