Skeptic Perfectionist

If that could've become ideal,
I'd have stayed.
I was always autumn.

I thought the trees were dying;
It was my leaves
Caught in yellow brown.

My vampire mirrors smelled like garlic;
I covered them up with the blankets
That my cold blood didn't need.

Don't start didn't occur;
I kept stopping
Until I looked up.

I heard the stars say:
Your seasons won't believe
Until you pick your sun.