momentary seasons.

Slipping past, like acrid smoke, like dead leaves, like dusty photographs

A fell wind blows

Your spring, my winter

Fine lines mark your face

A permanent link to our mutual disaster

Your disease, seeping out

My secondary infection

And in the past, we were happy

And in the future, we might be happy again

But now

Now

Now, my winter slips into a void

And your spring blooms and blooms