Autumn is for poets

Autumn is for poets

It’s that one season we get that reflects our multiplex identities and justifies the unfixable mess the hyperactive summer days have left us with. Writing about the easy beauty of the golden tuscan sun covering its deep green hills and kissing brown eyed matilda on her forehead sparks not a single joy in me. I have no desire to recollect memories of heart shattering summer flings that never end with you moving to london with me when the leaves turn the color of my skin and the ensuring feeling of endlessnes has left your chest.

I hate that i met you on July 3rd and that you haven’t left my mind since. I thought by packing my bags and feeling the harsh air brush over my rose colored cheecks I would be reminded of heartwarming coldness but as you would often tell me, i‘m far too optimistic.

Having a sizzling cup of freshly brewed lemon tea has become quite habitual yet you stripped me of that simple joy. I blame it on your heavy spritzes of acqua dell’elba or maybe even more so on your sweet breath against my sharp chin that would send chills down my spine.

I meant to collect some shells for my niece, she’s fond of white, shimmery facades — it is as if she has met you. Your naïveté is not what makes you like her, perhaps it’s the way you say my name and have never left the room without putting a smirk on each and every dull, grey face.

I have never struggled with finding the right words, sometimes I just take my time with patiently lining them up and then scrapping them off my tongue as soon as I get too close to you. I have thought about telling you that your hair looks pretty for hours —

but instead I simply face the icey blue Mediterranean and agree that the crashing waves sound like poetry.

I‘m rambling —

Since being back in the comfort of my city, which is now covered in the deepest grey and wearing a tight auburn knit reminding me of my existence, just for a brief moment

I get a glimpse of why you only dare to exist in summer.

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