every time my phone dings that chime I set,
our patterend steps have been
evenly paced
but sometimes i miss
a few, just so our hands won’t
graze
— a metronome
back and forth.
though I’d still steal
a glance from it: soft
fingers on keys, light wrist
on the right beat,
slender
palms fit
in my sweater sleeve.
wondering, how
quickly it can
thaw the frost in mine;
and before my boiling belly
boil over
surrendering the
mistletoe nose;
how many are missing the same warmth I have yet to hold.
so much warmth in for the last days of autumn.
it’s my favorite season despite not experiencing it in my country.
i guess we can really miss the things that was never ours— or not yet, at least.
thanks for reading
a.s.
