It is autumn.
\nIt is cold.
\nIt is 48 degrees Fahrenheit outside,
\npaired with winds of 12 miles per hour.
\nWe are outside.
\nI don\u2019t know why.
\nYou wanted to take a walk.
\nI wanted to cuddle,
\nmaybe sleep.
\nBut I gave in, and you
\ndragged me out into a
\ncanvas of soft deaths.<\/p>\n
I like autumn;
\nI wear my beloved trench coat.
\nYou don\u2019t like autumn;
\nYou say it is too cold for you.
\nRight now, you are wearing
\none of your thick parka jackets.
\nAn evergreen one.
\nIt is a stark contrast to the carotenoid shades
\nof the dying leaves that drift past your shoulders.
\nThe leaves die whispering, and
\nThe wind brings the words to our ears.
\nThe leaves do not lie.
\nI hope we will be evergreen, too,
\nbut it might be too cold.<\/p>\n
I know it is cold, and that
\nI should keep moving, but
\nI have stopped walking,
\njust for a moment, just to
\nquietly appreciate how attractive you are.
\nAll mine.
\nI take a picture of you,
\nkicking at the leaves by the curb.
\nAutumn is a time to respect the dead.
\nThe living breathe, but dead leaves don\u2019t.
\nDoes temperature affect breathing?
\nI think 48 degrees Fahrenheit is too low.
\nThe 11th Edition of Campbell Biology says
\nit reduces enzyme activity in cells.<\/p>\n
It takes some time, but
\nI finally think of something to say.
\n\u201cI can\u2019t be-leaf I got myself someone so hot.\u201d
\nYour face flushes, turning a light crimson.
\nI feel myself smile.
\nMy heart softens.
\nMy chest feels a bit warmer.
\nWe are surrounded by warmth.
\nDead leaves hold warmth in their colors.
\nThe leaves continue to fall.
\nDead bodies are not warm.<\/p>\n
You pull me along;
\nWe continue walking.
\nIt is silent for some time
\nuntil you speak.
\n\u201cIs your name Autumn?\u201d
\nYou toss a leaf at me.
\n\u201cBecause I think I\u2019m falling for you.\u201d
\nYour boyish grin appears as I laugh.
\nThen, you laugh.
\nThen, I continue to laugh.
\nIt is really 48 degrees outside?
\nYour presence makes me feel warm.<\/p>\n
We continue to walk.
\nThe world continues to turn.
\nThe sun pours its golden hour upon us.
\nThe colors around us shine just slightly brighter.
\nThe leaves are dying in pianissimo.
\nTheir murmurs don\u2019t go unnoticed,
\nWe just choose not to listen.
\nThe leaves continue to fall\u2014
\none settles in your green hood.
\nIt is cold, but I am enjoying the walk.<\/p>\n
You make more puns and horrible jokes.
\nI keep my hands in the pockets
\nof my trench coat. You do the same,
\nwith your own parka,
\nbut your left hand somehow slips
\nits way into my right pocket,
\nand weaves its way
\nin between my fingers,
\ndrawing me out of my shelter.
\nI do not mind.<\/p>\n
It is cold, but with you here,
\n48 degrees Fahrenheit
\nand winds of 12 miles per hour
\nfeels a bit like summer and home to me.<\/p>\n
The leaves are falling
\nbetween our silence,
\nfilling up our world
\nwith the beauty of death.
\nAfter all, nothing gold can stay.
\nI wear my trench coat.
\nI hold your hand.
\nI lose myself in the moment.
\nI cannot bear the thought of not having us.
\nI listen to the murmurs of the dying leaves.
\nI wonder if they tell half-truths.
\nAre half-truths better than whole-lies?<\/p>\n
It is autumn again, and it is cold.
\nI wear my trench coat.
\nI take a walk.
\nI lose myself in the moment.
\nI think the same thoughts.
\nI wonder if nostalgia is a good thing.<\/p>\n
I think the leaves are trying to give me advice.
\nThey say there will be nothing to fear when a heart turns to gold.
\nHow does one tell them that nothing gold can stay?
\nHow does one tell them that only the gods have ichor in their veins?
\nHow do I tell them that I still bleed red?
\nThey must have been telling half-truths.<\/p>\n
Autumn this year
\nfeels much colder than it was last year.
\nI think it was warmer when you were around.
\nI think it was warmer because you were around.
\nI think I miss you and your warmth.
\nI guess you can finally say that our love is six feet under.<\/p>\n
I wonder if that is the reason why
\n48 degrees Fahrenheit
\nand winds of 12 miles per hour
\nfeels more like winter this year.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It is autumn. It is cold. It is 48 degrees Fahrenheit outside, paired with winds of 12 miles per hour. We are outside. I don\u2019t know why. You wanted to take a walk. I wanted to cuddle, maybe sleep. But I gave in, and you…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1397,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-71702","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-half-marathon-poem"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/71702","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1397"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=71702"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/71702\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":78839,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/71702\/revisions\/78839"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=71702"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=71702"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=71702"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}