Abandoned under the guise of self-sacrifice
How many times have you told these lies

A wonder to behold in your own right
Latching on, holding tight
I was lost the moment I got in your sights

A silver tongue with unmatched wit
Even the most dominant would submit
To your linguistic lashings

Skilled in verbal maneuvers and molding minds
You reveled in being one of a kind

Sly, and slick, smooth and quick
Your trick was finding what made me tick

You made me yours, then slipped away
I was your toy, begging to play

But then you were done; tired I suppose
You disappeared, to where..god only knows

You played the martyr, a victim, a pawn
Suddenly all of your power was gone

I know better, but I still feel incomplete
The flavor of erasure is so bittersweet

Love can come in four different forms, almost akin to the seasons. It is fluid, and can intertwine with the other seasons, but never truly sits still. Love is never constant, and it fades as quickly as the cooling kiss of a summer breeze.

Springtime love is electric, a bitter hour in which it seems that this love is all that matters. It is all encompassing, and galvanises you into action. To feel Springtime love is to feel alive, after days and weeks and months of quiet. It is the cheer of a crowd, the press of bodies and the pounding in your ears. Springtime love is exciting and new, no matter how many springs you've seen before.

Summertime love is a lazy creek, trickling slowly across the sun scorched rocks of a small waterfall. It is the curling vapour drifting up from the surface of the water, and the sweet lemon in a glass of lemonade. Summertime love is warmth and honey, and its cloying grip is both calming water and slow-burning flame.

Autumnal love is passionate, sour and fast, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it flash of clarity among the Indian summers and oncoming storms. It is the rain bearing down on a windowpane, morose and ferocious, and it is breathtaking. Autumnal love seems like the truest of the four, the kind of pain that one who is in love craves like nothing else. Autumnal love is hopeless, beautiful fury.

Wintering love is not kind, or violent, or sweet. It is the salt on the foam of a crashing wave, a lukewarm coffee abandoned overnight, the eye of the storm you can never escape. Wintering love is acceptance, and sorrow, and blessed silence, and only in winter do the other seasons of love look like a lie. Wintering love is regret, and terrified of when spring arrives once more.

Every time you fall in love, you live the days from spring to winter. Some love-years last days, and others last centuries, ages, eons, until even the sands of time forget that snow or rain ever fell there. The beautiful thing about humans, I find, is that even after a thousand winters, a human can be willing to sacrifice everything for one more spring.

-Will you love me? Have you ever?
I asked while you were killing me,
Gently and infinitely,
Ripping my heart out of my chest
Making it hard for me to swim in this **** wide open ocean.

The evening is quiet;
If by 'quiet' one disregards the breeze blowing by --
The clicking of the cicadas on one summer night.

I look up at the inky black sky and realize
That the moon is beautiful --
in a way unlike how conventional beauty is
expected to rob us of our breaths,
to give us tunnel visions,
make us chase the ecstasy of endless nights
in drunken stupor, in drugged haze.

It is not hot-blooded and obsessive and oppressive,
but quite the opposite;
Cold and detached, with a balanced air
of elegance and arrogance that which
only ethereal beings can achieve.

In the back of my mind, I've always known.
I've always felt the moon's presence, heard its call,
but have taken it all for granted.
Its muted warmth, its soft light
that drags my weary bones and tired soul
to the lonely bed, to cold thin sheets,
to the four grey walls I call a home.

Would any other lover be as kind?
Would any other pair of hands be as gentle?
Would any other voice be as soft?
I don't know, nor do I wish to know.
The moon is all I've ever wanted...

...but now I fear it's too late.
What once was I thought the apex of your moonrise
was already your descent;
What else can I do but watch?
Just like celestial bodies in the sky,
we share the same horizon
but are destined to never meet.

My love is the sun, which rises
only when your moon sets.

Today I listened to our songs
it felt like touching the heartbeat
of my friends from a distance

How are you?

The sea kissed our feet and went back, like that shy girl from Farm, hiding behind her mom’s curtains, revealing herself part by part.
We had laughed hard that evening.

I nodded to the question, the usual one eye closed nod that you hated. I heard a sigh.
This place hasn’t changed a bit.

And you?

Remember that one time we raced down a hillock? I wish I
could go back to that day and ask myself how I could smile when everything was going downhill so fast. How could I be brave enough to battle the winds with open eyes and laugh at my bruised knees?

A single rogue wave climbed up our ankles
and knowing how waves lead on to waves, I held her hand and we took a few steps back.

She looked at me for the first time that evening. Why did you leave?

For a long moment the question hung in the salty sea breeze,
circling around us like a cat waiting to be fed. Eventually, it went away,
searching for its answer someplace else.

She put an arm around my shoulders.
I felt warm and tears came easy.
Let’s go home, baby.