4 seasons to wait

You had told me you’d be back in 4 seasons, that you’d return in spring the next year; but you never did. I
had sat silent at the airport that day, my crestfallen expression dug deep into my hands as I cried alone,
waiting for you.

We had kept in contact on that day, messages going on for infinite time spans. I had looked forward to
hearing the sound of the ‘ding!’ on the phone, glancing to spot your name encased in pink hearts sitting
on the surface of it. My heart bloomed as I saw the message, ‘I love you.’

The next week, the messages dimmed. A simple ‘hey! Hru?’ Was all I had got each day. My confidence
for the love this boy had for me started to wilt like a rose in the arid desert; rare, but will die as the next
day follows with the sun. The sun, a figure that symbolizes the graciousness of the sun-blissed heavens,
something that all love and appreciate. The thing that shines brighter than the ‘light of my life’ he swore I
was.

The next day I saw your post, a picture of you with a beautiful girl. Her hair seemed to be blessed and
weaved by heaven’s silk, her eyes deep as the ocean, swirling in cerulean. You smiled like you were still
young, a head rounder than the moon with 2 floppy jowls whenever you smiled.

I hadn’t known why I felt that pain in my chest, after all we hadn’t been in love and touching the same
rose. Instead when our hearts conjoined, the rose had withered to two singular vermillion petals on the
desert floor.

I had taken my anger at you that day.