It's spring and it's raining. Everything is wet and cold, and everything is gray.
Gray streets, gray buildings, gray sidewalks.
They are all the same gray. Nothing different about either one, nothing unique. All the same.
All gray. But, that's wrong, right? At least to him it was. The boy, not the man, who I adored.
Where is he? When is he going to pop out of one of the gray cars and look at me and smile?
He always told me I was wrong. Everything wasn't gray.
"They are different shades of gray, love."
That's what he would always whisper in my ear as we danced among the clouds.
Different shades. All unique in their own way. None the same gray.
Different shades of gray.
He could see this so clearly, like it was common knowledge. Yet I could not see the shades. Just like I could not see the rainbows after it had rained. To me, every time it rained there was no rainbow. Just
empty-ness.
And there were no different shade of gray.
It was either gray or it wasn't.
And, just like he told me that it was not gray, he told me that a rainbow always appeared.
He'd even point to where it was, smiling that bright smile of his.
But I never could see it.
Perhaps the rain never really stopped pouring.

It's summer and it's flaming. Everything is hot and mucky, and everything is bright.
Bright blue sky, bright pink bikes, bright yellow sun.
So where is he? Bringing his candid smile and twinkling eyes.
The boy, not the man, who would whisper into my ear as we danced across the water, "Not everything is bright, dear."
But, as we danced across the water, I only saw things in bright, almost neon, colors.
Nothing was ever dull or dark.
Just like during night, when the sun supposedly went down, I still saw it shining brightly.
And the sky was not dark and the moon was not up. The stars were still invisible, and the sun was still shining.
And even when he would go on a walk with me, late at night, and he would complain how dark it was
I would just shrug. I never saw night.
Perhaps the sun never really went down.

It's autumn now and it's cool. Everything is windy and comfortable, and everything is flame-colored.
Red leaves, yellow leaves, orange leaves...brown leaves.
When will he come, with leaves in his arms and a flower wreath on his head?
Whispering in my ear as we danced among the trees, "Not all things leaf colored are bad, love."
Then he would hold a brown leaf up to my eye, saying that they are the same soft, candid brown color.
But I could not see how that proved his point. My eyes in all their plain brown were repulsive.
Still, he would say that, and just as when I would claim that the clouds did not move and that the same ones were always there, he would reassure me. Tell me differently.
I just couldn't see it. Couldn't comprehend it.
Perhaps the clouds never really went anywhere.

It's winter and it's freezing. Everything is damp and white, and everything is dead.
Dead snow, dead buildings, dead people.
It reminds me too much of him. He was like a drifting snowflake, always dancing. But he was never dead. No, everything about him was alive.
But where is he? When will he come out from behind a dead tree and whirl a snowball at me?
When will he come and whisper in my ear as we dance among the gods, "You were once like winter, you know."
I could never understand it. Winter was so magical. And he was like winter and I was nothing like him.
But he would reassure me that I had once been just as magical as winter.
And just as I could never see the sun after it had snowed, he kept my mind at rest.
It would snow, and it would stop. But I could never see the sun; it just wasn't there.
But he was there to tell me it was, and even though he pointed it out to me I could never see it.
Perhaps the snow just never really did stop falling.