I can ripple through one season
but never touch the others,
keep their curious shapes as indescribable
strangers once the snow begins to melt.

You must never let them cling to me,
they would be surrogates to you
that I may never be able to relinquish,
even though I've wondered countless times.

To be the wind sweeping over your bed
when it climbs through your windows in Spring,
the water beading along your form
and tangling hair in July,
the evaporating mist from each strand
as you walk home from the lake.

The sweet scent of leaves you inhale
when they detach and spiral away from trees
as autumn begins to take hold.

I can ripple through your heart
once winter closes in.

Be the warmth your veins crave
on those icy nights,
when the shadow we are so familiar
with surfaces around this time of year.

When we are drawn this close,
the entire world narrows and strips
down to the most bare sensations,
no trace of history lingering.

Bodies lose gravity during such collisions,
beings become all echoes and exploding stars,
I can almost swallow the perfume of your skin,
recite the faintest sonatas hummed within your dreams.

I can keep these intimate passages
as the seasons begin to seamlessly
fold into one another,
they will be the surrogates to you
that I get to hold on to.

The ripples that will inevitably
carry me to you again.