I looked at you with daggers in my eyes, Summer.
Then I gazed away and dropped your searing hands—
They weren’t worth holding any longer.
Against my better judgment,
I let go of you permanently.

To Winter, I walked.
Then I ran.
Then I cried.

As I did, the chill breeze of dusk hit me like a thousand tons;
I found myself gripping my sleeveless arms and rubbing them.
The tears running down my cheeks seem crystallized—
Frozen in place,
With shriveled spikes discoloring my face as each droplet fell to the ground.

The cold wasn’t something I felt when I was with you.
You gave me a sense of warmth.
A contrast to the silent, windy surroundings of the Winter sky.

Now, when I’m around you,
The solemn cold vibrates up and down my spine.
And now when I think back to that moment—
I start to understand.

Your warmth made it so easy to forget the stinging sensation of isolation.
It seems I took that warmth for granted.

I panicked as I buried my hands in my pockets,
But the chill seeped through the fabric—
A quiet reminder of the absence you left behind.
The wind carried whispers,
Words I couldn’t quite catch,
But I knew what they meant.

Everything feels sharper now.
The frost etches patterns on the windows; intricate, delicate,
But unforgiving.
The ground beneath me is solid,
Steady in a way I haven’t been since I let you go.

Winter doesn’t soften its edges.
It makes sure I feel everything.
No gentle embrace, no lingering warmth.
Just the raw honesty of its bite.

And yet, in the stillness,
In the hush between snowflakes,
I begin to wonder if this cold was always here,
Waiting for me to notice it somewhere,
Buried deep in the endless scorch of Summer.

You let Winter die.