I held your springtime hand.


"Will you love me until the stars go out?" you asked.

"Yes," I said.

Your cherry blossom fingers wove between mine as the wind carried them there.

"Will you love me until the moon stops rising?"

"Yes," I said.

The cool spark of your playful rings sent goosebumps traveling down my wrist, and I remembered the chill of the night that came upon us after the warmth of the day.

"How about until the world is underwater?"

"I think a legendary band once said that that would happen in the year three-thousand."

You smiled, your fresh breath and soft lips creating a world of their own in their universe.

The Mayette Universe.

Your gorgeous, star-shining face, home of fresh little planets of beauty.

My little dream home.

"Will you love me until the year three-thousand?"

"Yes," I lied. "Of course."


I knew it wouldn't work out.

You wouldn't love me for that long, anyway.


It happened every year, once the chill of girlfriend's past left frostbitten nicks in my head. The cold, stiff-limbed girls would melt away, live in their icebox homes, glaring at me through frosted windows as I walked by, still bundled in long shirts and scarves. Their skin was cracked on their sharp angles, lips dead and almost-purpled and I remembered, after holding every one of their hands, that I left little burns on their hearts, and they would flinch away.

The little cold spots they left in my heart vanished when the other girls came along. Their fresh brown hair, bobbing newly against their shoulders, framing their blooming little faces. They were gorgeous, lovely, all of them, every year.

And, despite knowing what would happen, knowing what I would do to them, I still loved them, and they, fresh and new and unknowing, loved me in return.



I know what will happen to you. Your heart will melt. Your eyes will drip. The planets and stars will all fall down with the weight of the sudden air. Your brown hair will crisp over and wilt. And you will hate me.

"You did this to me," you'll say. "You knew this would happen."

And I wouldn't have time to respond, because opening my mouth would burn you up, and you would be gone.


Still, even though my skin on yours was heavy and thick, you smiled, and the breeze picked up again and made my arms light with the chill. My arm was picked up by your petal-soft, pretty hands, and I held you around your shoulders. I almost expected you to droop under the weight of me. However, nighttime was coming upon us, and the air cooled me, and kept me a secret.


"Will you love me when all of the flowers stop blooming?" you asked. You asked because you thought, the flowers could never stop blooming, but even if they somehow do...

"Yes," I responded. "I'll love you until then."

Or, I would try. You will hate me, but I will try.



We walked under the budding stars for a long time. The night kept me hidden, and I wondered if you thought I was getting any lighter. I wonder if you noticed how hard my arm trembled with the cooled air. I wonder if, under your light laughter, you were suspicious of me.

And at the same time, I didn't want to know. I held your springtime hand and touched upon your cherry-blossom fingers, and I was more than content, walking through the night with you, despite glancing over to see if you had begun to wilt on nearly your last day.


Although you'll hate me, I will still love you. Although you'll be dead at my hands, I will still love you.



Even though I have begun to kill your nighttime breezes and can't sustain the freshness of your universe, the memory of springtime always makes a fragile flower bloom somewhere in my heavy, summertime heart.