Punctuation

Autumn

You walk in his midst, in the sunlight, his hair is collectively a vibrant auburn with straggling strands of lemon and cantaloupe intertwining.

He kisses you with crisp lips. He convinces you a snowfall is on its way. He persuades you to see it in the color of the afternoon clouds and feel it in the raw air.

But it is far too early for snow here.

He is never still, yet somehow always silent. Within him lays an abundance of peace and comfort. 

Your steps in him are accompanied by the lone sound of the fallen drowning in their tears. 

And as you breathe him in; you smell the earth, you smell the towering of evergreens, the withering of grass, the nectar of a fresh pumpkin. And cinnamon. You smell cinnamon. 

You can still feel warmth in him. There is still summer in his hands as he runs his fingers down your spine.

But he is simultaneously growing cold, like embers fatiguing into ash.

He provides you with an excuse to hide under a sweatshirt, pull your hands into their cuffs, hike the hood over your numbed ears. 

With him, you can watch the sunset now, before it is time to eat dinner. 

While he is here, there are colors the world has no name for...

he brings you husks of dehydrated corn in their chattering rows and dense fog towering around you, concealing the world in an envelope of mystery. 

Have you ever attempted to name them? These colors provided, which make you think of him? 

When you are with him, as the rain comes down, it comes down cold and rainboots are common. 

You feel a certain way; like you need to wear cozy socks and curl up under a blanket with a mug of hot coffee.

Until your house smells like pumpkin creamer. 

Somehow the clouds are different when it's his time. 

They are fuller, extravagant, more impressive, and it makes you wish you had a crayon in the color of their flesh.

He is here. 

You have fallen for him. 

It's such a genuine fall. 

So just keep on falling.