I Don’t Write About Anything Until The Weather is Bad During a Rough Patch
by setmefree
It’s been longer since we spoke
than the entire duration
of when our summer-long
conversation
ate away at our aching minds,
our cracked and caulked hearts.
While frost settles on my car
in the morning
on my way to work
like none of it ever happened.
My heart, too, is cold.
I have never known anyone like you.
I’m quite sure I won’t meet another.
Your words, my own thoughts
poured from you. My heart soaked in every letter, every pause and breath.
Fleeting dreams sprouted
from every seed our like-minds planted.
My life’s spring. After my life’s winter.
A promise of a never-ending summer.
We’ve reached another seasonal winter.
But just as seasonal spring is a far off date
So is our summer.