The leaves are falling outside, like harbingers of
a season filled with warmth in colours and
cold winds, with pumpkin spice and blankets
and pillow forts, and the idea that endings
are beginnings, to the patient ones.
I love the golden sun and sweater days of Autumn,
love the fading freckles and the laughter lines
it paints on my face, and the silent knowledge that,
among candlelight and the smell of coffee,
everything comes alive. My fingers tangle in
a hand-knitted sleeve, and hot tea warms me
from the inside, until I am like soft caramel.
His fingers brush my skin and linger, like
a promise made and meant and kept.