I crave you
as one might crave their lover, a dispensed lover,
that I too crave-
like every other lover of fall. Yet, my thirst is not justified.
Sailing through magazines
licking on spooky popsicles- |Forty Reasons Autumn is the Best|- my reason
swam in the blank spaces.
An ochre vibrancy, a rustle of orange-red-yellow and shades I never knew existed,
marks of dried maple
racing each other down to be the first ones to fall, and crunch under feet.
You arrived with cold heat,
the modest harbinger of a pristine, frozen realm, but I still want you, for you
are the tiny trepidation-
the kind the guilty like- and I still crave you, the masochistic mannequin that I am.
That we all are.
You are an erratic dalliance that we both know has multiple finales- complete with
nightly shenanigans and
uneaten pumpkin pies. Knowing that you bear a wintry death,
a penultimate episode
of a silent, sweet apocalypse- I want you, and wait for your next visit.
For loving you is
living in smog and later, searching for ashtrays, more ashtrays.
For you are but
a crackling, soothing bonfire taking me across the cold, cold night, and
a chilly nudge
that some are bathing in the musty vintage of their trappings, others
placing their hopes
on a cold bed while some are hoarding, accumulating, their hopes in tree holes.
[Forthcoming in Venus Magazine]