Miracle of sorts.

I long for last spring, and I know I can't have it. Maddeningly beautiful weather, this. I am trying to make a garland. Last monsoon, new stories cleaved to the rain. And every time I closed my eyes, I saw roads. This time, I long for the blues. It's a different season, but the songs still make me sigh. This time, I close my eyes, I see trains, I see you- slipping away, I see us- observing pointlessly. I sleep close to you- this close. .our noses touching. The leaves are a glittering green today, I would love a conversation on our usual gibberish. I long for that one corner of your mouth like last spring, and I long to stare unflinchingly at you and kiss you bravely, standing on my toes as the shocked pedestrians grumble. Last spring will always be a poem, and i'll always long for you and that special, enchanted time, like an intangible childhood vision.