You are winter
and I always fall for you,
as Autumn does
when rain comes knocking
on its leaves
and soon Autumn and I
are lost in a breath of
fresh petrichor;
you are rain
and for some unknown reason,
I'm always begging you
to drench me, soak me.
You are a notebook,
often closed,
spine seemingly unbroken,
and I, a starving poet
ripping at every page of yours;
I hope you won't
fall apart with me.