Street cleaners gather beneath crisp tree leaves,
Collecting cloudy tears along the hem of their hoods,
Their oversized coats reminding me of the night
we shared a bench within the downpour of the city,
You demanded I kept my hood down,
Allowing raindrops to trickle atop the bridge of my nose
As your fingers traced the cherry red tips of my ears,
I spent many minutes contemplating how
I would explain my state to my mother,
Settling on the notion to flee to my room the moment I returned,
Soon enough sense turned hazy,
Your violet lips nicked my own,
In a sickly speed.