A disease that comes upon many people as the spring season begins. It generally causes distractedness, excess joy, and restlessness. This sickness often causes hundreds of manhours wasted every year as people stare off into space by the hallucinations caused by this ailment. The only cure is time, although a late snowstorm may also help.

This disease can also make one more prone to become lovesick.

The saturated earth oozes the heat of raw thaw, tickling the olfactory memories of some spring day when we heard the cardinals and robins symphony in high branches of the old bare elms. The sun lies low and the snow sharpens from beneath, forming topographical ridges on the boulevard. The sky is periwinkle and hangs on me like garland. My skin itches and my summer soul waits patiently for box scores on mosquito days. I want the heat of bees and the hanging humid heads of wilting flowers to summon my sweat.

A fresh wake rumbles the climate, tilting planet, weaving a vortex from a template palette, twisting my senses, heaving unheard. This subsidized winter lingers between places. My endurance wanes and I hope I can coast the the rest of the way.

I’ve been a dull phony most of the trip. Skitching by and bye-bye, trying to wait out the cold. I folded up into myself under a soft quilt and listened to the creaks of the silent cold sneak around the house, howling the spirits of history. I comforted myself with baked goods and fortified with Spanish red wine. I ate cheese. Winter is my cocoon.

I will emerge like a phoenix with the spring. I will count all my potential on an abacus, then make a necklace out of the beads. While forging a relationship with myself, my soul will be soldered with alloys of honor and strength, fused to the abyss. The sun will hang color like billowing drapes in the sky and the shadows will sway in the wind left behind. Instead of stumbling into the night, I will ease into it. Spring births eternal, or something like that. I’ll be like that something else.

I forgot love and the heavy petting zoo of adolescence. A first kiss and the marigold taste of her lips and swirling tongue linger on the coasts. Wisps of her hair clinging to the lapel of her cashmere jacket, her eyes sharing the moment like a still life. Etched fate filled with the watercolors of our waning experience.

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