Elle Ai Elle

Spring

I couldn’t tell if this season would be different from the rest, but you wore a yellow shirt. Daisies. Your lips were the first thing I noticed. Red, luscious, tender. First day of knowing you: a debate erupts, shared our first giggle, and slap to the arm. . I was only 13. Too young to start holding roses. The thorns would prick wounds deeper than the flesh. To me, you were that rose. A blossoming infatuation.  

Summer

I was wondering how far we could travel before we arrived at a journey’s end—France? The AC in the bus was out. You gently leaned your head on my shoulder, exhausted from the heat wave circulating in the interior. Your hair cascading the like a waterfall. A different kind of warmth. You breached my safety perimeter--an undisclosed side where outsiders were prohibited. But, you didn't seem to care. It was just the two of us, in a pool of strangers. I got my answer.

Autumn

September called for breathing space. Someone else had set his sight on you--my best friend. And I found a dark corner by the edge of eyes. One filled with tears.The leaves of our friendship, withering: slowly.  I gripped the rose, and the thorns pierced and blood oozed.  

Winter

“Come back, okay?” she said faintly. Words that echoed a chill up my spine. But, not a word breezed through my mouth. Uncertain promises are always better left unsaid. Snowflake tears. We held on to each other—both seeking solace on a winter’s night. Like conspirators of the night, we exchanged a moment only shared between the two of us. Your hands around my back only serve as reminder of what we could have been. I’m 20. Still holding on to that rose.