it makes me wish for summer even more.
the flowers in the garden already think it's spring,
their little heads are trailing after the sun as it moves dimly across the sky.
it makes me upset to think that all it takes is one cold morning,
one frost,
and they are all dead,
just because they were wishing for spring.
i love, and hate, so easily.
what am i?
the extent of my admiration is a tall intensity that makes my heart collapse in it's own rough passion.
i have loved so many times.
i have hated twice as often as i've loved.
is passion my downfall?
