Seasoned Love
We are close for perfection.
The neon lights tired walls,
The downy smell of misty
Steps is but for demanding
Nostrils gone astray by dawn.
Springs comes and goes
A whimsical frail thought
Caught between rain and pain,
One kind of lump that grows
Inside the pernicious heart.
Summer has not caught up to me,
Much as it is promised to others,
Living in dream, spread around
In clumps, like clouds on a trip.
Come fall, things are dark until
They are not, and you linger
Inside the sheets, winter against,
Me adorning your right arm,
The one luring the cold inside.
You crave us in rime, awaiting
The ensuing becoming spring.
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