You were early morning fog that keeps rolling in on grassy hilltops.
Green covered in red and yellow and brown; a place where the living meets the dying.
Cool, minty breath, and the image of you rolling down that hill with a pumpkin in hand will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Orange hair, dark freckles on your face, pretty black tights and a bright yellow jacket that was almost too obnoxious for the beginning of September.
"When did the Autumn become the saddest season?" I asked her as she sipped her coffee as black mascara fell down her pink freckled cheeks.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
You were early morning fog that keeps rolling in on grassy hilltops.
Green covered in red and yellow and brown; a place where the living meets the dying.
Cool, minty breath, and the image of you rolling down that hill with a pumpkin in hand will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Orange hair, dark freckles on your face, pretty black tights and a bright yellow jacket that was almost too obnoxious for the beginning of September.
"When did the Autumn become the saddest season?" I asked her as she sipped her coffee as black mascara fell down her pink freckled cheeks.
Request permission to use this poem