The trees lose their leaves, there clothing. I slowly start to lose my grip. My hands have only ever wanted the bark.
The air becomes crisp. The higher you climb the further you fall, the harder it hits. as soon as I lost my grip, I lost you as well.
The temperature drops sharply at night. Just as sharp as the blade I drag across my arms, as the trees lose there clothing I add on, long sleeves and pants to cover the "bark"

The touch of you makes me quiver and it fixes my line of sight