Fall

Orange is currently my favourite colour. Orange is the colour of ground up cinnamon powder (the spice of fall) which you constantly smelt like. It's like you took baths in cinnamon and tea leaves all the damn time, I would taste the sweet spice whenever I tasted you. It came as no surprise to me when people told me that taste and smell were related; I knew that already because whenever I sneaked whiffs of cinnamon, it was like I could almost feel the richness of you on my lips - heat flirting with my skin; teasing my mouth in that inviting way only you know how. My appetence for you almost evolves to a blistering hunger; and I (once again) am afraid of how much I love you.

Orange is the colour of the leaves you pick off the pavements and slip into my pockets after our dates. "A souvenir for the night," you insist. I leaned in to let our lips meet to give you another souvenir of my own - and another and another and another.

Orange is the colour of the shirt you wore on the first day of Fall. That day you told me I was beautiful sixty-two times. You too are beautiful, so, so beautiful; the way a city is beautiful at three in the morning - so alive with shades of neon and incandescent lights that demand attention; yet as still and as reticent as a well-kept secret. Sometimes I wonder how you could be made up from the same stuff as everyone else: blood, sinews, tissues, bones - when you seemed to be otherworldly, like you ate pocketfuls of love fed to you by Life himself. Our love is relentless, like hot tea it scorches my throat going down and stings my tongue with it's sweet aftertaste before it caresses the roof of my mouth with warmth only it can provide. Our love manifests uncontrollably; my feelings are incapable of being caged or concealed. 

I loved you in Fall and I'll love you still.