Apple Cider

The cider I drank tasted like October.

The suns' heavy rays raked across my closed eyelids;
slid across the curly tendrils that framed my face.

When the sun slipped down, bloodying the sky in a crimson twilight,
the world seemed to fall asleep for a while, before waking up in a rude start when darkness rose.

The cider held a bitter taste, but it's smell was like December.

The moon held me in cold contempt, but I smiled at her warmly;
the night had always been my friend.

When the moon forgot to shine, she lost herself in the haze of clouds,
the world continued without a stutter, and I remembered the promise I had given;

and take another drink of my cider, that insists upon feeling like May as it slides down my throat.