months of the year.

october:

was when i met you.

we were in a coffee shop. it was stuffy and crowded, but it smelt like hope and the coffee was decent.

you sat down next to me, quietly, and neither of us said anything as you watched my coffee get cold.

'why?' you asked softly.

'i don't like getting burned.'

it's a shame i ended up getting burned anyway.

--

november:

i had this incredibly eccentric neighbor.

she put her christmas lights up at the beginning of november. i never understood why.

most of the lights ended up dying by december.

and then i thought of the lights as the important people in my life, and i thought it was ironic how, in the end, they always ended up dying or leaving, too.

--

december:

the first night it snowed that year, you brushed my hair out of my eyes and smiled. i asked, 'what are you smiling about?'

you said, 'i know what my new year's resolution will be.'

i asked, 'what?'

you said, 'i'm going to be more careful. my goal is to not break anything out of clumsiness.' and suddenly, we were centiments apart, and i could smell your cinnamon breath on my face.

you said, 'i promise i won't break you.' and then you kissed me, and it was our beginning.

--

january:

the snow was still falling. you said i reminded you of a snowflake; how i had six sides, but in the end, they're all the same.

i pointed out that snowflakes melt.

you smiled and said, 'yes, but we need the water that they become.'

but you never needed me, did you?

--

february:

the snow stopped falling.

and you broke your new year's resolution when you left - my heart shattered when you stepped on it on your way out.

you didn't even say sorry, not that it would've changed anything.

--

march:

i'm sorry.

remember that picture of us we took back in december? the one with snow in our hair and that lonely tree in the background and the bird, about to take off to fly?

i broke it.

the glass picture frame dropped and shattered. i didn't think the picutre was worth getting pieces of glass in my hands.

i only wish i could tell you that dropping it was an accident.

--

april:

it was pouring the day i met him.

i was shivering outside, waiting for a taxi. he walked up to me, smiling, and gave me his raincoat against my protests.

i asked, 'how can i repay you?'

still smiling, he gave me his number and said, 'just call me sometime.'

--

may:

i visited my mom, and we reminisced about what life was like when i was little.

'remember the time when i baked a cake for your grandmother and you took a bite out of it when i wasn't looking?'

'yes,' i replied.

i had a reputation for taking things i shouldn't.

i still do.

--

june:

i finally got up the guts to call him.

'i've been waiting,' he said.

'so have i,' i replied.

'for what?' he asked, confused.

'i'm not sure,' i said.

i almost said for you, but i'm glad i didn't.

--

july:

he kissed me, not under the moon and stars but under the clouds and sun and sky.

but it was just as romantic.

and no, i didn't get butterflies. my heart didn't skip a beat and i didn't grow imaginary wings and start flying.

but the empty feeling inside felt a lot less heavy.

--

august:

he said, 'i wish i could say that i'm in love with you. but i can't.'

i said, 'that's okay. i understand.'

and i did.

because i felt the same.

--

september:

but he left, same as you did.

God, are all boys the same?

i can only hope the answer is no. and i'll be waiting for the one that's different.

if he exists, that is.