limited edition

There has to be something else to talk about besides love. But is there anything else? Yes. August waning into autumn, the last slivers of its thick heat kissing everything into flame. It makes me glad for winter not long afterwards, to cool the cinders November leaves behind. There’s the taste of dusk this time of year, and how soon we’ll be able to taste when the leaves start to change. And it’s the scent of maple, sticky-sweet caramel that will coat gloves and tongues and eyelashes and coats like a second skin. It’s smelling your hands as they cradle my cheeks the way the ocean embraces the shore. But there’s love there, in your nicotine-and-library-book scented caress. If only they sold you all year round; but you’re limited edition, my autumnal fixation. So I’ll rake the clutter from my disorganized heart to make a little more room, and hum a lament when you don’t stay. I know I’m not the only one.