I loved her in January,
huddled on the bus ride down
through the night and into town.

I saw her in February
passing on the path below,
trapped behind my locked window.
 

I heard her in March,
her voice singing in the air,
but couldn’t see her anywhere.
 

I fought her in April
in hushed tones over the phone,
beneath the bathroom fan’s low drone.
 

I lost her in May
when I, for a while, had to go away;
would she finally from my heart stray?

I thought her in June
to have gone and forgotten me,
until she called, one night at three.

I found her in July,
beneath the azure summer sky
in the shade and said goodbye.

I felt her in August,
a heavy weight in my heart,
even a hundred miles apart.

I feared her in September,
scared for the moment when
I’d bump into her again,

I neared her in October
walking on the path ahead
showered in brown and gold and red.

I faced her in November
stood my ground and made small talk,
stuffing my anxieties with a cork.

I missed her in December
in the nights that last too long;
time passed but my love stayed strong.