"September"
Hot denim chokes thighs
While blissfully curled eyelashes
Flatline
And mascara runs. Our feet walk
over the cracked concrete, and
I am conflicted because I may be
Too sweaty to hold your hand.
"December"
Sewn into our matching pajamas,
Cotton snowmen wearing red mittens are
The remains of a white Christmas.
The snow outside turns to
Rain turns to mush.
My head on your chest
The little drummer boy beats my lullaby.
"March"
Much too early am I
Awakened by the sun,
filtering light through trees that are
still dead, still barren.
An open window lets in the first spring draft,
or the last of winter air, but either way
The curtains must be closed.
