Wednesday, 6th period, 42 degrees
Bitter chill coiled around my neck
but you needed to get out.

Sheep in flannel swarmed the parking lot while
you and I collapsed into warm leather,
my hands cupping over a small vent
wheezing half-warm air at shivering fingers.

You stopped the car in the clearing
where trees leaned back and watched their fallen leaves
tremble and part for our boots with each fluttering breeze.

Just a few weeks earlier and we'd been the heart of fall
and when its lungs breathed to us red, orange, yellow,
you’d reach up and catch the colors
before they crumpled in your hands.

Now the leaves sit under our tires
and you light your cigarette, flick the match down
where I watch it catch a curled leaf
rolling into itself, shattering when another hard gust
passes from limb to limb around us.

When you're satisfied you pull your hair back down,
rub the bald spot behind your ear.
I watch your shadow through the glare.
Wait for you to tell me to get in.
The inside doesn't smell like a choking fire, but
ash dots the hood where you've forgotten to wipe it away.