It is July and I am a library book.
You borrow me but only peak inside, but that's enough to make you interested. But before you know it, you need to return the book and you're left wondering and soon also forgetting.
It is November and I am a puppy.
Excited and ready to explore, you adore me and I am all yours, even if I don't know it yet. We play together and I love every minute, every word.
It is December and I am a pillow.
A pillow to hug when no one else is there, a pillow who understands, and then gets sent to get washed and during those days there is only confusion.
It is February and I am a porcelain doll.
Fragile and to be handled with care, you hold me as tight as you dare and you make sure to do as much as you can to keep me safe, to keep me whole.
It is April and I am an old painting.
Dull to some, emotional to others, terribly heartbreaking to you because the paint is fading and the picture is distorted.
It is May and I am a broken glass on the floor.
You are horrified because I looked sturdier than I was and you dropped me by accident. You hate yourself for destroying me and desperately gather all the pieces together, not caring about the cuts and gashes on your fingers.
It is July and I am a lost shirt.
You're not sure if you miss me because sometimes you do but other days you can't even remember what I look like.
It is August and I am wind.
I blow past you and assure you that it's okay now.