Sunset Season

My eyes caught you trying to fall secretly like an early autumn leaf, discreet as an orange speck against a bright blue sky.

Your voice dripped in warm tones and rough edges, something slow and frantic like seasons chasing after one another.

I could taste the nutmeg on your words in the dying light as you pulled me to your skin.

While my palm stroked your silk cheek, still filled with October's flush, you insisted that you would soon be nothing but gossamer between my fingers.

I inhaled you for a lifetime; I could never smell the dead leaves that haunted you.