Dear John, I mean, Winter

We need to talk.
This isn't working out.

You're a bit...clingy.
Newsflash: It's Spring. That's your cue to go, but once again, you've overstayed your welcome.
Sure, we had the occasional good time. You were sort of charming at Christmas. Sledding that one day was kind of fun. And I enjoyed those drinks by the fire in my flannel pajamas. But I thought you always understood that I wasn't serious about pursuing anything with you.
Don't look so surprised.

We're not exactly on the same page.

To quote Patty Loveless and to paraphrase every Taylor Swift song, you don't even know who I am. You want me to be covered up all the time, and that's not me. It never has been. You're cloudy and cold, while I'm sunny and warm. You're boots, and I'm flip-flops. You're hot chocolate, and I'm sweet tea. (Okay. Okay. I'm wine. I'm always wine. Whatever.)
The point is, we aren't compatible.

No, don't go down that road. This is not all about Spring. What a tease, that one. Hot one day, cool the next, hinting at wonderful things to come but taking its sweet time giving up the goods. Spring is merely my rebound, a fun little fling. We'll have a few laughs, maybe roll around in the tulips, but Spring will never have my heart. That belongs to Summer.

What I have with Summer is real and beautiful. It's porch sits, fireflies and fireworks, baby. Even if what you say is true, and Summer does eventually leave me again, it's still worth the time we have together. I'm needy like that with Summer. You know how it is.

Please wipe those flurries away and let me move on. It's time to let go, dammit. I can't even bear to open the coat closet and see your things. I'm packing them up today. No more, Winter.
Also, don't draw this thing out. No lingering, hoping I'll change my mind. I won't. In fact, I'd prefer it if you don't come around for a long, long time. I've tried to just be friends, but -- can we get real? -- you're a pain in the ass with serious attachment issues.

Maybe you need some therapy. You're even driving away those who once defended you. I live in Kentucky, and I think you're rude -- what with all that school canceling and family bonding you forced upon us. (Thank God for individual Netflix queues, am I right?)
I can only imagine how New Englanders feel about you now. You came on way too strong this year. What's with you and the Polar-Vortex-Siberian-Express-snow-for-months-on-end bullcrap?
Oh, geez. You're upset. That explains this whole "out like a lion" March thing. Look, it's not all bad. I sort of admire you for being true to yourself and owning it, but to everything there is a season, and it's time to turn! turn! turn!
It's not you, Winter. It's...
Sigh. I can't lie.
It's totally freaking you.
I'll leave the ice scrapers and gloves by the door.
I know Summer won't answer my calls yet (I've been trying since January. Does that make me look too eager?), so I'm going to see if Spring wants to hook up this weekend, maybe show me some blossoms.
Good riddance, Winter.
Don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.