In time

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I know my seasons.

Dry would be the summer when I would traipse around with friends and try hard, on clear, starlit nights to not wish you were with me.

I keep busy with one beach, mountain or city in the world so I don't have to think about the beach, mountain or city you are at. 

Wet is the worse. I hate the typhoons that would force me to stay inside, mess up the internet signal and drag me down to nostalgia as the nip in the air and damp outside force me to think of warm bodies safely in bed 

And the storm inside that it would build, from your narcissistic motivation towards sweetness to lure, then betray and my devastation 

My eyes are moist and shining as I pull through, sometimes triumphant, sometimes crawling toward the cool season. 

When the air switches and makes me grab my jacket, I will be in wonder but less angry. Forgiving of myself and grateful for having loved. 

A new year rolls in full of hopes and reboots. And the year goes around again until you are nothing more than an unfollowed Facebook profile, a face that pulls at could-have-beens once in a while during the summer. Then you will be a "What the hell was I thinking?!" and rain will wash the anger and the stupid off of me, forgiving, leaving me dry and cooler than ever. 

My seasons know me.



"I am an X in an indeterminate equation. And that X is the rock upon which I stand." - Mario Puzo

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