Heaven Between Seasons

We met in late August heat,

sweat sticking our shirts to plastic bar stools,

Your laugh loud enough to fight the fan.

You smelled like sunscreen and cheap rum,

tasted like a decision I’d remake again.

By November, you were wearing my scarf,

insisting you “didn’t even get cold like that.”

We shared pockets on long walks home,

fingers hunting each other like lost keys.

You drew constellations in your breath on bus windows,

wrote my initials there until the glass cried.

The first winter, it snowed inside my apartment

When you slammed the door too hard.

Paintflakes drifted from the frame,

landing in my hair like confetti for an argument.

We still made cocoa after, toes touching under the blanket,

as if proximity could fix vocabulary.

Summer came back ruthless—

all sunburn and unanswered texts.

Your messages dried up before the rain did.

I watered your plant anyway,

watched it lean toward the window

The way I leaned toward your name.

Somewhere between jackets and tank tops

I realized loving you was like the weather—

beautiful, merciless, never asking permission to change.

I still check the forecast before I see you,

pack an umbrella and sunglasses just in case,

learning, slowly, to be my own small heaven.