WINTER …these fingers grow brittle and cold and hold tightly fisted the letters you sent one week from your birthday, underlining all the truths you weren’t ready to say.
SPRING …the flowers bloomed scattering pollen while the bees carried paranoia to and fro. People, scared and impressionable, asking questions they didn’t want answers to.
SUMMER …the beach called home and asked if we were in. It hadn’t seen us in a while. Salt in the air and water in the lungs, drowning in nonchalance.
AUTUMN …the leaves fell steadily in a stream from their branches. Your phone was unhooked. Strips of your torn summer frock sat on the dresser.