I have loved you for each season
in specific, empty ways.
The building, budding tension of spring,
waiting to bloom, not knowing
if or when could be the right time,
fearing the late night, the early morning freeze.
Until the explosion of summer
and I am an afterthought.
All that’s left of the sweaty desperation.
A small, muddy puddle, barely enough
for you to step through.
I dream of deserts and droughts,
Waiting for you, building stages in the rain.
Waiting like a sunbather waits for the shade.
The nights get cold and I yearn to be bold like trees,
stiff and bare with bright orange leaves.
I turn on the heat, sleep without clothes,
I dream about you and wake up alone.
Keep me close if you want to or toss me away,
When it’s winter
and the snow is gray slush,
we ride together in cars and our arms touch.
All we have is this, amounting to a single breath,
some slight singularity and
other nonsense about fate.