and then they were gone

winter is

coffee too bitter and cold for an already grimy february morning,

the snowfall way it trails down my throat,

and pools in my stomach in drifts

(akin to the ill-fated collections of mottled matter piling in the parking lots).

it is

one spotlight of heat and warmth

emanating evenly from countless fires tended on nights cold as the grave,

though not quite as lonely and silent as one.

 

spring is

the abrasive fizzle of a barely-citrus-tinged orange seltzer,

soft twangs of guitar and melancholic harmonies,

childhood blankets, all softness worn away

from years too many in the dryer,

leaving them matted and coarse

yet still home to memories, 

old and new,

of peace in the first light of morning.

 

summer is

hands woven so tightly together i feel nothing.

nothing but the surety of someone else’s presence at my shoulder

and the subtle, permeating ache where hastily-cut fingernails accost my palms. 

(a scene in a parking misty with summer heat)

the scalding leather of a car seat,

left to broil in the sickly sun,

peeling off the backs of my legs

 

autumn is

a coveted laugh,

making its debut for the most unexpected and macabre;

so unchained and unique i hear it echo through my head

and every hall as though each space was a canyon.

skillet-fresh pancakes, 

dripping with melted nuggets of chocolate

and all-but drowning in an ocean of offensively effusive syrup.

 

a year is

just a year but so much more,

just one flicker of time 

manifesting in a sensation so close to being tangible

you weep at the loss of its phantom touch.