She sat on the linen sheets of my bed,
The lace of her olive-green bra hugging her perfectly.
I traced my fingers over her protruding ribs,
Each one covered by pale, creamy skin
Sprinkled with freckles the same
Color as my morning lattes.
It felt like silk under my rough fingertips. 

Clusters of these freckles covered her face,
Trails of them trickling down her neck,
Falling off onto her shoulders.
I wanted to count them all. 

Ringlets of dark brown hair tumbled down her back,
Stopping at the clasp of that olive green bra.
She smelt like lilacs, so fresh and sweet and green.
Lilacs don’t bloom for very long, though. 

She was like one of the first days of spring,
When you’re finally warm and the grass is green again
and the sun is shining down upon you, illuminating everything around you, and your soul doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. 

I want it to be spring every day.