cherry season

what blooms must also fade

Spring was the season of bloom—filled with promises of sunshine amid the fleeting rain. Green blades rose through thawed earth, and buds pressed forward like they couldn’t stand to be hidden any longer. The first days were soft, new. We orbited each other with the cautious grace of something not yet named. There were no declarations, no clear beginnings—just warmth and small touches, like polished stones waiting to be unearthed. It was a season of instinct and pull. We hung suspended, held by something delicate and unseen, not quite separate, not yet one. A pair of cherries with twin red hearts, joined by a single stem.

July fireworks burst across the sky like the flavors on our tongues. We ate fruit until our fingers stained red, let the juice run down our arms, kissed it from each other’s skin. The summer days were gold and sticky, as if honey was spilling across the sky. I tasted the sweetness as we swelled with sugar and heat—sunburned, tangled, and hungry. Sitting in the sunshine, we learned to tie the stems with our tongues. You made it look effortless, those knots. I watched them become little tokens of something secret and unspoken. Something tight—and almost obscene—while the fresh pits soaked in the salt air. Surely, even the sweetest things could last.

Summer began to subside, and the cherries started to darken. What was once bright and sweet had deepened—richer, but edged with something almost bitter. Still, we picked them, even as the juice began to stain deeper, like wine sinking into cloth. Tied stems were now a habit, and pits collected in our pockets like coins. It was still summer, still sweet and warm. But autumn crept in unnoticed, until suddenly the branches were bare.

Breaths began to fog glass while the heat retracted from our skin. I witnessed the stems wilt and the once fresh pits turn rotten. ​​The sweetness curdled slowly, almost tender in its unraveling. Words thinned and touch cooled. We wore sweaters and silence, wrapped in layers we hadn’t needed before. There was no fight, no sharp break—just the steady retreat, like shadows stretching longer each day.

By December, the bed grew colder. The air between us froze with the snowflakes drifting from the clouds, settling over everything raw. Reaching to warm my hands, I felt the weight inside my coat pockets—somehow heavier than it once was. My frosted fingers brushed the relics of something sweet. Something knotted and bare. Something gone.

We had once hung together. We had once burned.

Now, even the pits had shriveled.