September: Leftovers of summer air decay into autumn breezes. I thumb through the pages of new schoolbooks, grazing my fingers over the ink. During the night, I leave my window open and wake up to my room smelling like dandelion-colored wind.

October: The big homecoming game falls on a cloudless evening; the navy night sky is burnished by stadium lights, filled with cheers and “Don’t Stop Believing” lyrics. Sunset-colored leaves stick to the gravel sidewalk. I lie in bed, alone, snuggling under blankets while watching 80s horror movies.

November: Thankfulness comes in the form of hugs, Hallmark cards, and green bean mushroom casserole. My eyes meet someone else’s across the laboratory of the chemistry classroom. A box of tissues hibernates near my bedside, beyond amber sweaters and black leggings.

December: The first snow arrives; it’s subtle enough to pass as a light dusting, enough for the clinquant fairy lights to reflect. I wake up one morning to chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream on the top that spells out “sixteen.” Even though it’s thirty-three degrees, a friend and I walk across town to the nearest Dunkin Donuts.

January: The bed sheets freeze to my skin as dark morning light seeps through my window. Steel drums clang in overly heated retirement homes. I spend the bitterly snowy afternoons writing poetry under soft blankets that I take weeks to edit before submitting.

February: My friends and I celebrate Galentine’s Day on a rainy Sunday morning at a 24-hour diner. Blizzards blanket the ground in mounds of snow big enough to cancel school. My first date takes place in a small, brick-enclosed city with an icy river gushing underneath a cooped-up coffee shop.

March: Ephemeral snow glistens in the March sunlight, which melts the fluffy mixture quickly. The school musical sells out for the first time in history, and my all-black pit orchestra uniform is painted by the rainbow spotlights. Pink buds begin to blossom on trees, fooled by the daylight saving’s quick appearance.

April: The air becomes warm and embracing as I walk on hidden forest trails, my fingers interlocked with someone else’s. I explore the magical city of New York, lit up by a thousand neon lights. My broken, dry skin is exposed to the spring air.

May: While watching season five, episode five of Friends, I lie on my basement couch and follow the movement of his soft lips. My sister and I devote the sapphire-painted evenings to driving around rural roads and singing along to classic rock ballads. I get my first sunburn in a while, painting my skin a bright, screaming red.

June: For the first time in nearly ten years, I wear a bikini to go swimming, my nervous heart pulsing through the swimsuit. On a bright evening, I dance around my steel pans in an emerald-painted forest. Summer nights finally breathe through my window again, tainted with stardust and dandelions.