Seasonal sicknesses

"Don't speak."
His bottom lip, like the last cherry blossom,  
lingered on the parting in my lips
and I waited for the Summer.
A hundred days we'd spend together,
running through the tall blades of grass, so soft for blades.
Yet we combine only to separate and we were designed to fall asleep.
I'm left on a park bench imagining the trepidation lingering in the branches of an old oak tree
but now that's just me.
He is locking lips with white walls,
two lips that never separate.  
"Don't speak," He said, yet he's not speaking,
in a coma,  
fast asleep,
and I am lost, on a park bench, missing his sleep-tormenting snoring.
Darkness encloses me
and it's winter
unbending me 
like snow angels on a resin floor
with blades,
blades not so soft now,
they cut into our skin -
leave us breathless.
It's Spring again and between these frightening walls
we say goodbye.
You and I,
"Don't speak...We've said it all."