Or, it will pass like the ever-changing seasons.

Curled-up blankets that sing of the ache in your sore body,

It will crumble like paint on a cement wall,

Or skin on your fingers when 

You touch the doorknob, and the wooden plank softly creaks open.

Light blinds your eyes.

You leave, and you leave traces of yourself behind

For the wind to follow you into hopes that unfurl into dreams, 

And a place far from the present tense. 

Love means the destruction of things, not necessarily of the self, 

But parts of the self you do not particularly like. 

It means changing and accepting that you are as insubstantial as

The rusty leaves that fall, and so I ask you, today: 

Will you wither away, here, with the fallen leaves

Or will you bloom into a new life with me? 

Until love finds the fire escape to our lives,

I would, then, take you in, and I would wait for the seasons to change again.

Holding my breath, hoping that you do the same, for when spring arrives.

Fahad likes frogs. Recommend him your favorite books at amfahad1747@gmail.com