i wonder

if this is how i will

die

pressed against the

crook of your

fingers, your

impossibly large

hands

you are warm.

my mother always told me that i

was winter

because my pale skin

waxen against the waning moon

became repulsed

by the sun, the spring

the spell of pollen

and my eyes are

the color of lips

before one drowns

under thin ice.

you glow

in the summer sun

and your eyes

are the earthy brown

of hearty soil

your long black hair

falling over your ears

in cascading

waterfalls

you are spring

in its fertile bloom

you are summer

in its fleeting heat

you are autumn

and gold, red leaves.

i press closer

and wonder if

this means

i am

melting.