Vanity of the Seasons

I am not perfect
Standing in the cold, insides twisting, snow gently falling.
The world around me soft and beautiful, like a woman, a certain woman.
She is the snow in the winter time.
Everywhere I look I see her.
She is like the growing flowers in the spring.
Her gentle smell makes me stop and enjoy the time.
She is like heat in the summer.
Everywhere I go I cannot stop her.
She is like the leaves softly floating to the ground in the peace of the twilight.
A symbolic twist to and end most terrifying.

I do not want to beg, I won’t have too.
For the end is the sun caught in the night.
Only darkness consumes the very petite thought of her Light.
Her light that sees me as a monster of the disgusting variety.
A variety of great consumption, only the covers, only the covers.
We put our covers on when we wake and take them off when we sleep.
Being perfect is not an option.
It is by far the nature of things.
I cannot match her, the simple natural beauty holds so I will let go.
I am perfect enough for that.