String your crossbow.

I was never the girl who kissed you on the mouth, but I was always the one that knew how you liked to be touched.
You were summer and winter, and stacks of unread books. You were adresses and stamps, and letters in ink.
Blossoms fell like snow that month and you curled your toes and wished for autumn.
Apparitions flew in the fields and slipped through dimensions on white wings and cold wind.
Spring lasted too long. You were never one for waiting.