Tiny teardrops fall from my pores,
I place blame on the sun of a Summer's day.
I thought that if I believed hard enough,
I could capture it and keep it in a locket;
next to the picture of your beautiful and smiling face.

But with cruel intent,
would the breeze blow it away, away, away!
If my breath was coated with the misty ice of Winter,
would it freeze my sun,
and make his heart cold?

Would my skinny and frightened hands
be capable of convincing the early coming of Spring?

The breeze is but one
of the many conflicting gusts
created within my mind,
steaming out through my nose and through my ears.

And if my laugh was a veil of smoke
covering the edges of my many teeth,
would you still be able to see
that every one of them was smiling for you?

And if everything I touch turns to Autumn's murky fog
why can I count every freckle you left
when you kissed my shoulders?