End of the Season Feeling

To be impersonal about it all
Would work out fine for me, you know
But I can't do that
To be a number, not a name
 
To see you as I see me
Would hurt my pride, I know,
But I won't stir up my envy
And be a sinner dressed as saint
 
To acknowledge those you prefer
Would not do a thing at all, they know
But I'd still want you
For I am not the hunter, but the prey
 
October was a dance,
It was a game.
 
November, a cry,
December, a cold pain.
 
January was numb,
Barren.
 
February is this time,
That nothing sweet yet foreshadows.
 
And still I refuse to wallow
I'll let this season end
By all means
You'll be where you want tomorrow
And I'll be here  
The place where I have always been.