When I Have You

September 23, 2011
In October, when the bites of leaves against our boot soles fill the air,
You will walk me home,
Our arms linked instead of hands grasped,
You’ll let me borrow your hat,
And a degree or two of your restful warmth.

In October, when the days are short and time is always running out,
We’ll split your pair of gloves:
One on my right hand and one on your left,
So that we can keep each other close in the spraying breeze.
The cold will seem less abrasive, somehow.

In October, when rusty hued corn husks accessorize the world,
I’ll take you on an adventure.
In a tangled field we’ll misplace ourselves,
Among the stalks looming over our woolen pom-pom peaked hats,
And in each other.

In October, when I want to tangle myself up in you,
I’ll borrow so many of your warm layers,
That I’ll forget which clothes were yours and you will, too.
I’ll search through the aisles at the corner store for your fabric softener,
Determined not to wash anything until I can be sure it’ll smell like you again.

In October, when we snuggle up under unnecessary blankets,
We’ll sip at too-hot hot cocoa and burn our tongues,
Until they’ve lost feeling and the chocolate thins.
The marshmallows will melt to slimy globs of white,
And ooze down our throats, coating them in a preemptive snow.

In October, I’ll have you.

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