I met you in the fall


When I met you, the trees were a lustrous blaze of bronze, and the leaves on the ground flickered at my feet—licks of golden yellow and flames of fierce burgundy. The world was painted with a palette of divinely wilting flora and fauna, but you didn’t wilt; you grew. Like vines, you flourished and flew, reaching toward the sky. You entangled my legs as you danced on my skin, climbing higher and higher. 

When I met you, life was beautiful, and so were you. 

I met you in the fall, but I saw no seasons; I saw only you. As the trees flared orange around me, I looked into your eyes, and my cheeks burned brighter than the canopies coating the camphorwood. The trickling temperature melted off my hands when we touched. The foreboding ice swooned in a vaporous valediction as your magnanimity melted my melancholia. 

The leaves died, but we lived.

But as the leaves fall, I wonder if you’ll descend with them. Will the equinox be our zenith or is their prosperity yet to come? I wonder; I wonder. The air is chilling, and I fear you are too. When the world goes white, will your love pale, too? 

It’ll be the season of giving, but I fear your candy cane smile will be taken from me. I can’t bear to see your peppermint eyes dissolve. I can’t bear to be stripped of your spearmint savor. I can’t bear to see you go. 

You’re the star at the top of my tree, yet I worry you’ll let me topple from a top-tier twig. I’ve wrapped my cares in shiny tin, and my emotions are adorned with bows, but will you leave me barren? Will you leave me any gifts, if not your presence at the very least—is that even guaranteed?

May it be you’ll thaw in the springtime? As the pale pinks, periwinkles, and peas puncture the pearl pall, I can only hope the color returns to your eyes. As the roses bud, will you open with them? The birds will sing, and you can join them or revel in painful silence. 

It’s too dangerous to deploy my desires on the debris of dandelions, but my wishes will wispily waver with the wind. 

When the seeds kiss the soil, I can only hope you’ll grow with them. 

As the pale pinks, periwinkles, and peas puncture the pearl pall, I can only hope the color returns to your eyes.”

Summer will strengthen us; I’m sure. The leaves will be green, and I’ll be reminded of their golden yellow potential and fierce burgundy possibility. Your softness will rival that of the grass, and the succulents will succumb to your succulence. The flowers will grow envious of your beauty. 

It will be summer, and we will be summer, too. 

When summer ends, we will start again. When the greens turn to brown, I’ll think of your eyes. When the heat turns to frigidity, I’ll think of your warmth.

When it becomes fall, I’ll think of you again.