We met in the Summer but Autumn is our season. You are as much of me as I am of you; deja vu to the soul. I think our insides are the same hue of marigold. When my reflection bathes in the pool of your eyes, I leave your presence cleaner than I came. You do not sour at my flaws, but rinse me of their stains. And when you speak my words, they sound honest on your lips.
You’re a reminder that connection shares no bed with time. Trees do not beg their leaves to stay, they trust the seasons will return them. The sky does not grieve each passing day, it softens knowing another will come. I think this was meant to be, but not in the way the universe promises a soulmate. More like rain meeting a drought-ridden earth. Or how certain songs find us only after life gifts us the ears to understand them.
And that realisation dawned on me in the midst of small moments. While you spun me around in your kitchen to Love Man. Every time you point to birds in the swaying gums. Even while you held my hand as we wandered through the bush. It was when you sang, and laughed, and let me see you in a softer light. When the sensation of your palm hugging my neck weakens my knees, I melt into you. Unbeknownst to you, the little girl in me revealed herself again.
You must know that the texture of my existence has changed in your gaze. Parts of my stomach had not yet met laughter until I met you. I’ve never played a prettier version of myself with you. Embarrassment does not find me in our silence, or in my noise. Even my grief sits differently beside you, less grotesque perhaps; it wears a smile. As if being witnessed by the right eyes softened my edges somehow.
Yet, the seasons do not wait for anyone. And the trees let go knowing they were magnificent while they held their leaves. Perhaps that is all love asks of us, not possession, but presence in what is real and beautiful while it is here. To learn to hold each other with open arms.
And when we must let go, you’ll always be
the most glorious Autumn I’ve known.
—yours, in hues of amber.
Each night our souls meet on the lonely road.
We converse in whispers of hopes and forgotten dreams. We laugh and rest our heads upon each other’s shoulders as we stroll through a forest of autumn flame.
The silhouette of our palms, ever so close, as we dance to a song only lovers hear. And when we wake, memory of the passion we stumbled upon fades in the morning light.
Each day we are strangers, walking the lonely road once more.
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