Our Autumn

 

This is our autumn. The fingerprints of our summer brittle and skeletal, their remnants flaking away to reveal the cold of our winter. Is this desolation or simply the only beauty we have left? Could an ache be more exquisite or a pretty agony more poignant in our garden of discontent? Time lays snow thick over our footprints, what can be left to remember us as we set out on that search to find ourselves through the frosted windows of each other. Our lips were frozen with unspoken words, which blushed only blue. I can feel the cold burn of your touch. I can even feel the sting of when we painted our lips warm with tongue brushes and whispered promises that dripped like sticky honey through our rigid fingers.

I didn't just say goodbye to you; I said goodbye to a part of me too. The winter flushed our cheeks with pretty bruises, our thirsty hands peeling off these wretched old skins to find something new, something craved, another me and another you.

Yet the blue turned to red, as we kissed so perfectly in unity. We thought it was a sign when our words gushed and bled into those enrapturing silences afraid to speak our minds. We couldn’t live like that.

You can't live forever in winter....as motions and thoughts froze into frigid tableau's of dreams that time axed through.

Only I found my summer. I was kissing daffodils in the morning dew, laughing wind blowing through my hair as I reminiscence this moment. With words that embraced me with sweet kisses upon my sighs and fingertips which warmed as they mapped across my flesh. I could breathe again. I was no longer holding my breath. Breathing was always so much better then bleeding.

In the past, we held such beautiful faces, our hands mirrored with the gentility of feathers and the clarity of empty glass with our armored smiling eyes. If only we could hold on to the now and forgot the past.

Just now, I counted your kisses against the lashes on my arms. Yet, why couldn't you have kissed me more? They were brighter and riper and held more passion then your half closed eyes.

We were the orphans of our discontent, made of scattered shards, tiptoeing on bare feet. We thought we were folding when we were only just breaking. Desperately, holding on to our souls, for something new, like a birth of a new star and the death of the moon.

We wore our autumn in beautiful bruises and our winter filled our veins and then we were gone, gone when it rained.

If only our souls were bullet proof - then we probably would never forget what happened that day.