In the middle of the night,
we were cold rolling stones
in an empty street.
Our souls bundled up with some sense of permanence
as you walked me home for the last time;
It was home, for the last time.
The darkness of night trespassed my secret shelter,
at the lingering of our embrace.
The first and last warmth
I had felt,
was yours.
Morning would be colder,
I might not feel the same acquaintance with autumn
as I had with you.
I walked with you under trees,
spots of sunlight rested on our skin and clothes;
orange-gold leaves falling
around our bodies, softening the ground,
beneath our feet.
In our innocent nature,
we stood in defeat.
the first poem