April was an existentialist. She only believed in moments she could taste with her tongue outstretched, and with that, she deemed her story less important than the others, especially that of May. April and May could have easily been sisters. When they laughed, the sounds wove together, and when they cried, daffodils found the strength to get out of bed in the morning. In the dark, you could barely tell them apart.
Yet everything was more saturated about May. She was brimming with consequence. Even her biology reflected this, her full body barely losing in a constant, precarious quarrel with her clothes. Her eyes carried the innocence and wisdom of sea glass, only made more beautiful by rogue tides. A guy could bask in her forever.
April was considered beautiful, but in an objective kind of way. Her clothes never seemed to fit quite right, either restricting her breath or swallowing her shape. Her eyes were often bright, but unstable, flitting from amber to dirt. You'd want to place April behind glass. You'd want to feature her under the gloss of a fashion magazine. You'd want to keep April at a safe distance. You'd want to fuck her, but only in your mind.
Many are colder than April, yet poets always consider her the cruelest. Maybe it's the way she warms your skin in one breath and leaves you frostbitten in the next. Maybe it's the way her harsh breezes overpower her subtle sunshine. Maybe it's that she's impossible to forecast, always one arm's reach out of your grasp. Maybe she's afraid of herself.