Shakespeare mused "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"

You are summer with
your flinging feet, sunburnt lips,
and sun-kissed skin which I wish
to make
me-kissed.

You are autumn with its
warm colours
and falling leaves,
its coats and berets and
deep
red lipstick.

You are winter with your rosy cheeks covered in ice crystals,
in fresh snow lapping over,
and the children dancing and singing in front of fires,
while the adults toast hazelnuts that they had found in the forest.
(you knew there wouldn't be much so you scattered them around and
smiled as the kids cheered.)

You are spring with the scent of pollen,
like an old tune from a music box,
and the melting snow pooling on grass,
and everything can now grow and thrive and bloom.

You are the colour in my world.

You are what keeps my brain from becoming a gloomy day in foggy London.
You are the one who'd wish for it to rain heavier and run to dance in it with me in your arms.
And you would pull the hood of my jacket closer to my chin and give our umbrella to a stranger since we're already soaked either way.

We would laugh and shout and sing and look like drunkards,
but it doesn't matter, you say,
we are simply enjoying life.

Life.
That is what you are.

Life,
in your pink cheeks,
pounding after running through the streets.

In your blood
that always seems to dance,
in how mine has been ever-changing since
I'd met
you.

© lilac_of_hope