october crackles its’ warmth during
the nights. the streetlights illuminate
their familiar shade of orange, a
disingenuous offer at transparency.
sweaters are donned and mugs
are never empty; october – the
ode to nostalgia.
words strained through the heart
emerge candy-coated. the spinning
of fear into confectioneries is an
art i perfected years ago. to you,
the mistress who cheated death,
i offer this, a temporary
encapsulation of the reality
we never shared.
my forehead pressed against
your collarbone (…i'm home,
i'm finally home), we spoke
of nothing. i knew everything
i needed to from the sound
of you breathing, and you
gathered it from caressing