It’s mid-april and the sun has finally peaked out of hiding,
But the crystals in your bloodstream are still as distant to me as they were in the winter.
The citrus in your tongue is still floating somewhere near Christmas
And the smell of grass is now forced to consume me the way your arms used to.
I have a new set of hands to hold; ones that warm my chest the same way you did,
But I remember promising myself that forever was in your brown eyes,
And his are light as the Mediterranean,
And his daisies compare not to your white roses.