In spring, everything was new and exciting. There were butterfly kisses among the flowers and giggling when he inhaled too much pollen. There was outdoor lounging, silver and gold twining together and complimenting better than they probably should have. There were high hopes, but no expectations. There was happiness because there was nothing to be unhappy about. That was love in spring.
In summer, the weather was hot and the nights were long and both were taken advantage of. Lines were tested and boundaries were found underneath shirts and skirts. Eventually, those ceased to exist and not even record temperatures could stay the passions better suited for midwinter. There was shared lemonade and bronzing skin. There were underwater kisses and collected sea shells and smells like sea salt and promises that would probably be broken. That was love in summer.
In autumn, the leaves all turned red. There was no orange and gold that year, and it suited them perfectly well. Fighting began in autumn, though not to serious. They were the usual spats about things that were of little consequence. A look across the room at a stranger or a word considered too kind to be entirely innocent. But there were also strolls in the park underneath a crimson canopy and the ruination of several piles of recently raked leaved. That was love in autumn.
In winter, everything began to die. Flowers withered and animals vanished and the whole world fell silent under blankets of ice. The heat grew cold and the long nights were fewer and farther between. The one thing that stayed hot were the fights, now longer and with perhaps more basis. And whether secrets were kept or nonexistent, they were yet another casualty of the season. Thus, there was no love in winter.
But they did not despair. After all, things had a tendency to rise again come spring.