He was one.

In May he came and stormed me away. His lips soft as spring, his eyes harsh as winter.
Alone, he spoke poetry. He made a dull Fall vibrant as yellow tulips in the Spring with just the small chuckle that hung from his smirk.
 He drew mountains on my body and made my corpse tick and tock and caused the explosions that fueled me back to life.
He set the fires my concave soul required to keep warm. 
 Alone, he built bridges and towns in me and introduced me to a part of myself that I longed to have met.
 He taught me to walk on my own waters and sing the song of summer.
 Alone, he was something I'll never fully grasp, something I'll never fully hold.

But in company, he was bitter, in company he was cold.
 In company he was harsher than a thousand Chicago winters.
 In company he was blunt and indifferent in the worst way possible.
 He lacked fire, he lacked passion, he lacked interest, he lacked love.
 The man that alone with me was full of explosive reds, in company was dull.

Who he was trying to impress? I don't believe I'll ever know.
 The man I fell in love with, I fell in love alone.
And the coldest man I'll ever know was in company of everything but me, of course.


The End

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