Sometimes it gets to be too much, waiting for you to come around.

The ground softened up a long time ago; the leaves are now all green.
Makes me wonder when you'll grow a little.
The sun warms my shoulders as tiny beads of sweat slowly roll down the nape of my neck. The maintenance guys planted the petunias, they make the tulips stand out nicely. A sole lily of the valley gently shakes her head in the breeze.
I'm reminded of last night, the grief I felt when I realized I was standing alone.
The grass is yellowed in patches and bright green in others. It's coarse to the touch but smells like spring.
It's getting harder not to be reminded of you.

It feels like there's plenty to be done, and plenty of time to do it in, but that's as much an illusion as we ever were.
The minutes stretch on. The sun beats down harder.
I'd go inside for a minute if I thought it'd help, but I know the heat wouldn't leave me.

What I need is a cold shower.

To get rid of that scratchy feeling of the grass against my bare legs. To wash away the sweat, the smell of the outdoors. To get you out of my head.

Because you're relentless, and forbidding, distant, and merciless, and because although you warm me, you also burn me, and playing with you is dangerous.

I should've listened when you told me to never look directly into the sun.