The fall frightens me. Seasonal purgatory

has neither summer’s sweltering guilt

nor winter’s angelic seduction.

You are nineteen and tender;

I am blue waiting on the snow.

The trees of time are weeping

tears of a golden amber;

and this is where the summer goes

when it fears the falling rain.

I am but a man, my love:

I do not last long,

but longing remains.

How did we get here?

Central park, October:

my toes are numb,

my hair is leaving me

and you are dancing with the winds.

I can barely look at you, as

the smoke from my cigarette curls blue

and glides about your shivering hips.

My lips no longer kiss

the way they used to, but

you could melt stone

with a few dirty words.

Oh, what I would not give

to take you into winter

one last time.