12 Months Later

	January makes you a fucking disaster like the roar that shakes the
	trees and bangs alongside the houses, amidst the storm. She whispers
	in your ear, “just because we found love does not mean love
	will stay” as you find yourself settled inside her.
	January has your mother’s eyes; blue and crystal without the
	intentions to match. Pretty is petty and you will never forget.

February is hot
	to the touch; sizzlin’ like grease lurking to leave its mark
	on your skin, like Icarus into the sun. She is your breath in the
	cold when you can no longer feel. Her lips traced with an invite to
	her bedroom. Her imprint lies in the sheets, waiting to feel in
	place momentarily again. February wears red lace lingerie under her
	clothes to club and is never the prey. You sweat over her because
	she tells you to call with no intentions to ever answer knowing
	you’ll wait, and wait, and wait. February can’t keep her
	promises. 
	

March is
	everything pure, a virgin when we first met. She brings you home to
	her family the second time you meet and lets her sister tell you
	stories about pointless shit. Her innocence intrigues you after you
	took her to church and watched her worship on her knees in those
	times she believes god isn’t looking. You tuck her in and
	watch her sleep as you climb out her window. Not the usual type, she
	volunteers for charity, and not the usual kind girls did in high
	school. She sits in the back but still gets straight As. She asks to
	hold your hand in through the halls, and knows to let go and fiddle
	with her chastity ring when you see those other girls. She doesn’t
	bite her tongue, no, the words never get that far. A week passes and
	you can’t even fucking remember her name. 
	

April loves
	like a ghost. Haunts you when you have nowhere to run. “I
	could love you but that’d be a waste of time.” April
	gets her hands dirty with nothing but a pile of bones. “Where
	do you think you’re going?” she says with a smirk. She’s
	not the type to bring home. Always hungry, kisses with her teeth. 
	

May was more
	beautiful before you picked her. Confrontations rush into hot, and
	steamy but only temporary solutions. Her mouth is the orange juice
	to your toothpaste kisses. Mama always said to love full heartedly
	or not at all but something about her kept your heart open for
	monthly visits. Messy sheets, you found out, really are short and
	sweet.

June is a
	thrift shop. Like spare pennies. All this old furniture spells your
	name. June takes you to a pool in the summer to skinny dip in. Her
	fingers drip love too bold to stay bodily. Trails of Jack in
	tarnished coat holes, twirling in the depth of old records and lost
	dreams in last generations. She draws her hand, a one of a kind of
	course. You check your deck but her hand is moving down your thigh
	and suddenly the kings and queens held no value. Her heart is dusty
	so your chamber is in the attic. Tongues only speak the same
	language when they intertwine but you forgot when her smile tried to
	join the small talk.

July won’t
	keep your hands out of her mouth. You get her drunk to open her up.
	She disappears late at night to leave you to wake up alone but she
	leaves a glass of water and some aspirin on her way out. That’s
	all you can ask for in a generation like this. July always lies with
	a new face every time. She can’t remember the last color her
	hair was as she dyes a new identity in a gas station bathroom. She
	tells you to tattoo her name on your wrist and you say you’ll
	show her next week. July is reeling, only loves with a pile of
	bones.

August indulges
	in spoiled reads. She is a poem without a happy ending because those
	are the best kind. You lay under the cotton candy clouds and wake up
	more tired than before. Her type of beauty is exhausting; she avoids
	mirrors because your eyes are more than enough. Under her bed in an
	old shoe box is her deepest desires like kissing your bruised
	knuckles, and filling the space between your ribs. In a universe of
	words, you could only trace her hands until they settled inside
	themselves. August is a rose, but roses still have thorns.

September
	always says, “Baby come home” with her hands tangled in
	your hair. She is a house that you have to take your shoes off at
	the front door, endure side conversations with her mother. Sits with
	her legs crossed and her chin propped high. Calls you every night to
	tell you horror stories about LA before she moved. Her voice keeps
	you up with comfort. Says she loves you during her first prom.
	September is impressionable, she’ll learn from this more than
	you. 
	

October is
	lazy, hides in your sweaters like bed sheets and won’t wash
	the dishes. October heals your wounds left from February and keeps
	you in bed. Always wants to nap till the sun sets and trace the
	stars with our mind. You feel safe even though you shouldn’t.
	She knows you won’t leave, her kisses are bitter and you cling
	to the bottle till you can’t remember and that’s when
	she finds her escape. Short and easy like a ripped band aid in a
	shower. 
	

November has a
	curfew but never listens. She wants flowers on every table and for
	tomorrow to be a gentler crime scene. There’s a knot in your
	throat in the shape of her name. I don’t know how to speak her
	language but the way her eyes gaze separates a heart from a soul.
	She’s rebellious, like a biker jacket and a Harley, and she
	likes when her mother no longer speaks to her. You tell November
	she’s too careless, but no one told her you could die from
	bliss and she never saw it coming. 
	

December
	escapes in her greatest of loves. She can sing to you with waves of
	goodbye like she doesn’t want to. December is stubborn, won’t
	let you walk her home so your journey always starts and begins at
	the bus stop. “I could love you but my past still has me in
	its grasps, so it’d be a waste” she whispers. She knows
	it isn’t best to be the first to dive in with a self
	confidence to shatter within her own hands. Her father’s black
	leather jacket looks mistaken on her quivering bones. “I blame
	myself” she says, “is it because you know my name?”
	You only remember her when you see the tree with your initials
	carved into it, and that’s when it hurts the worst.