She touches me like autumn. Her fingers are sunlight, her lips are rain, her voice is a river and it lulls me, carries me, drifting in darkness, into peace.
She loves me like summer. My heart runs marathons under her mouth, my skin shakes and sweats. I am swallowed in moonlight, lost in the stars, drowned in a hundred years of short nights and long, stretching sunsets.
I miss her like winter, like frostbite. The ache that warms me, the hands that shift and rub, the restlessness of cold feet. My ribs are naked branches, reaching up and up, waiting for sunlight, waiting for green, for life.
We live like spring, like memories of the sunrise and birdsong, like Easter morning and happy tears. Her hands are promises, fresh grass, new leaves, every budding flower. Our future is daylight savings, longer and longer with each waking, promises like moonrise and shooting stars. The future is cold like a new morning and sometimes chills still shiver our spines but the frost is turning to dew and the mornings grow warmer and brighter and better every time we have the courage to meet them again.