Us on your bicycle, Your hand wrapped around my waist I heard nothing but our laughter. You love summer — the heat, the holidays, the summer flowers. As I stand before you I recall this. A letter won’t make you return to me anymore. I mention you in prayers, I mention us every night, of us on your bicycle. This time, I’m whispering, “One last conversation at 17 would’ve been better.” As summer fades, you did too. For that reason I loathe summer. Farewell, my almost lover.

He stands there, His legs light and his arms heavy. Closing his eyes as The wind combs his hair and Brush against his face. He felt his hair fall strand by strand and His body agonizingly melt liquid smooth. Two steps The winter flowers — roses, snowdrops, cyclamen covered in snow. He held a silver filigree pendant necklace with Jets, the only thing shining, up to the moon. His only thought, “What have I become now?” Is winter the only season one feels nothing and everything?