We met in summer. Why you were in summer, I don’t know. But my soul met and felt yours, and I doubt I'll ever experience that with anyone else. I didn't deserve you before I had you, nor when I had you.
When I let it consume me, I can’t tell if I'm crying or underwater, and my lungs ache with a weight that is a toss-up between feeling and ocean. Swimming pools and sunscreen are my distractions, but when water completely surrounds me, it seeps into my ears and sends all my thoughts echoing back. My heart screams in a way that scares itself into skipping an unsteady beat. Is it Morse code? Is it screaming some obvious truth that I just can’t decipher?
It's all in my head, I know, but it also invades my chest, my hands, behind my eyes. I guess it's everywhere. I require it all to be stuffed in a small chest in the back of my head. No wonder there's a dull pound there, it’s pushing against the lid, hoping the latch breaks because it doesn’t know how so much is all supposed to fit in that one small box. Fitting my lost world in a wooden box has proven to be a difficult task. I suffocate it in the container, yet I pray it still lives as I emerge from the sea.
Some days, I let a few fireflies out to dance in their lazy hazy way. They flicker and twitch, and I'm gone again. I feel your hand where mine is, search for your hugs in others' embraces, hear you when I need you; but I always need you. Summer is not complete without the cold pools and beverages to neutralize the heat.
Forgetting you or getting over you is worse than not letting the fireflies follow me around. They bring me peonies and string bracelets and everything I want back. It's easy to let them, but it's harder in the moments when I'm conscious of reality within the dream. The between-joy while remembering that you are truly gone. There is a possibility close to none that I can't entertain, that we will have another chance. In those blank moments of accepting the truth, I also know that forgetting you would be worse. Not feeling this tremble and bend in my soul would be more devastating than if I'd never met you.
The fireflies paint foggy fading purple lines when I close my eyes. Unidentifiable shapes against the nothingness that the world becomes when I step back into my chest. The fading scribbles are already gone by the time the thought is able to be acknowledged. So what am I to do now that my favorite, the most important shape I've seen is no longer burned into my sights always?
To the world, you are isolated and colorless in the way you eat the reds and oranges of fall, for the way spring reintroduces pink and green and yellow. It’s all comparison. From where I stood, your ice is a hug, your snowflakes are art, and you can’t help that the other seasons have a warm taste.
How could you, winter, be gone, slipped away in one silky motion without giving me a chance to recover our stolen heaven. It’s over, it’s over, it’s over, it's over, there's no going back to how it was. I need to accept that. That this is what you want, this is how you want it to be. Separated by spring and fall because it wasn’t cold enough here in summer. The only way I can visit you now is in those memories, in those dreams, or in the molecules between seconds that I allow myself to acknowledge ‘hey, you liked your drinks hot’ or ‘you didn’t know what swimming was’ or anything else where I call you ‘her’ or ‘she’ because wi- is too much and I’m always one well pronounced word away from letting the world lapse into cold rain.
You didn’t stay long; you never wanted forever. What you didn’t take into consideration was that your imprint would remain regardless of if you stayed. Your cold wind would continue to press and tear. Not a single opening of the world but a thousand left in your wake. I know you’re hurting, and I apologise for all the ways I have contributed. You claimed the inward collapse of all that is known would have devoured us. The merging of ice and fire, for me I wonder if, possibly, could our collision have become home?
Instead, sometimes I send bursts of heat through autumn, he understands. It does nothing except melt your gently laid snow. I’m an annoyance to solve. I no longer recognize your frost. It's easier, but wrong, to question what was real. Did you truly visit me? Or was it all a plot to leave a cold scar over my sandy beaches. I had to put spring between us and autumn on the other side. They exist to protect me from finding out if it was true or a hoax. If it isn't fated -- if it was fake... if fate is fake, am I a fool?
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