I can write about Winter.

I am compelled to write out the blizzard of thoughts and emotions.

To let my inner chaos leak out in words.

But it’s hard to write about the changing of the seasons.

It’s hard to trust a warmer day.

I’ve been bracing myself, holding my breath.

Do I trust my own interpretations of a gentle breeze?

Do I trust the calmness in his eyes?

And even if our growth is real, do I dare to hope for a future together?

Even as I notice a softening in the barren earth, a thawing out,

Am I imagining that I see some green pushing through?

And what if another round of freezing temperatures descends on me?

As the weeks pass, I am more confident that it really might be Spring.

I am also weighed down by what others might think.

It’s easy to give in to the “damned if I do, damned if I don’t” lie.

Winter and Spring both contain the pain of waiting.

In Winter, the waiting feels like dying,

But in Spring, it starts to feel like hope.

I have survived. Again.

I trust me to walk forward and keep growing. Again.

I want to risk blooming beside him. Again.