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.