To my sincerest,
I heard Autumn tickled your foot and in your uncontrollable laughter, Winter stole her from your sheets. I heard Autumn was passion imbued with watercolor haze – mystic persona bound by grief of the copper man.
…She played the cello for you most evenings, didn’t she? I think I heard her rambling straw lines and nimble pines; dry husks from the aged, from the wise. Her lids were always hushed but her lips bitten from your swaying reads.
We sat in the Old House Coffee Shop between here and there. Some green tea in your white hipster mug. A sweet coffee in my hippie mug. You told me she never laughed. And I frowned. Remained silent. And watched the people outside bundled in triple stitch scarves; bird nests wrapped around their necks and their faces peered over, starved for warmth. To this day, they still remind me of Autumn leaving.
And I still wish I could play the cello, too.
Poetry
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You painted a glorious picture in this poem. This is a beautiful piece!