Dear April,

Sometimes I think I like you more than even March or August because your goodness is slightly more consistent. You are modestly warm with occasional hopeful beer-filled afternoons, but generally, you just mean being awake before 2pm. You are rain that doesn’t burn and sun that doesn’t eat through skin. You are enough time left to do your work, but close enough to the end of term that it’s in sight. You are hope and a warming up of my soul after a winter in bed with a dangerous head. April, you are a sign that things can and will get better. That things will end, people will leave, and I can get out of bed. You are refuge and you are future.

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