Is it true on a cold winter morning, when the windows are frosted and the snow covers the ground in a blanket of white, that you cannot look into my eyes and see a crisp spring day. A day that starts with the scent of fresh morning dew and a sunrise over the mountain tops shining softly on the green grass fields and pictures of you.

Is it true that on a hot summer afternoon, when the humid air fills the lungs of those we seek and sand covered beach blankets lie on the coast, that I cannot look in to your soul and see a mild autumn evening. An evening that ends with the smell of freshly burnt leaves and a reddish orange sky of passionate moments and soft felt dreams.

Is it true that the days that fill my eyes and the evenings that unfold your soul will never be seen, will never be told. The spring morning dew, the sky of an autumn night, the soft felt dreams, all can be found within the pictures of you.