I feel a little uncomfortable telling you this,
As we've not met in such intimate circumstances as these,
But the red and yellow maple leaves
Carpet the ground in designer splendor once more
And somewhere deep inside of me a hole has opened up.
The chills have begun to hug the ground, cling to hard surfaces,
And my bones have begun to search for another set to keep close
In delicately intricate, interweaving patterns.
This happens at the latter half of every year
But it's not body warmth that I've been seeking.
I've met her here, where I now speak to you,
In the twisting, velvet coves of my mind.
She and I, we go to lay ourselves in the soft, fallen canopy
And star at the crisp, crystal sky,
Wrapped in cozy, chill-weather clothes.
We do much together, we go to the MFA, and the science museums,
And the aquarium. We pour over every placard.
We go to small corner-stores-turned-nightclubs
Where dark rooms play smoky music until we cannot help but spin
Each other on the rich burgundy nap between the stained wooden
Dinner tables, dark and round with waxen candles.
She likes to talk about it afterward. So do I.
Our list of favorite places daily extends to include recent travels.
Or sometimes we don't go anywhere at all,
Instead choosing to settle beneath a down blanket by the fireplace,
Shadows dancing in the corners, and read to each other.
I suppose it is quite harmless for a yearning to be so insistent
That it roots in some corner of your heart, and there becomes very real.
Picasso said, "Everything you can imagine is real."
I understand that.
And besides, the need subsides in warmer weather.
The hole has been patched over enough to be ignored
By the time the ground thaws.
The urgency is seasonal,
Or at least my fortitude against it is.
Still, on fall and winter afternoons,
I go and lie down in the park,
Looking up into the crystalline sky.
I go and dream; I go and wait.
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