By: Kambria Whittaker

The moon told me stories and the thunder sang me to sleep. I held a quiet conversation with the lighting as he spoke to me in morse code, a pattern only the two of us knew, telling me I was neither alive nor dead, but simply stuck in a dream; lost in an unreal city where the seasons fail to change. What was a desire, my wish for the season to stay constant, the wish that nothing would change, became intermittents of hope, dying, reviving. Memories of blooming lilacs twisted themselves into dust, and I know outside it is spring, but I feel as if I am confined in the dead of winter.

And then I met you.

I began to tell the moon stories of us: the way your hands were rough but your touch was gentle, how my heartbeat sped up little by little, how my breath hitched the moment your skin touched mine, and he told me I loved you. I asked the thunder to sing me love songs instead of her normal lullaby. My little talks with the lightning turned to me asking how to light up your world the way you light up mine. I wished for it to always be spring, but with you, I’d feel just as warm in winter.

Art Piece “New Bloom” by Anna Maria Warren