I feel the seasons change like an old abandoned mood ring,
each drop or rise of temperature follows suit with my emotions.
This summer I am manic,
I can feel the build within me.
All of my promiscuous endeavors,
all of my split decision impulse,
desperation at it’s finest,
to replace the thoughts of you.
I am finally over winter,
because I became the spring,
my tears, the rain that watered gardens I had grown for you,
gardens full of poison vines and weeds.
Yes, I am welcoming the mania,
a long desired distraction from the thought of your silhouette at dawn,
the taste of your name on my tongue no longer bitter, but stale.
Our memories are withered like a book whose pages have turned too many,
I am sick of writing poetry for you.
– Brittany Rickard