You are an autumn, you know.
I remember the first time I felt you from the hips, that night in my car, the one you later said was the incipience of emotion (emotion being l.u.v.), we'd watched New York over the horizon and all the night perspired against my skin talking about college, our hands clammy on top of one another's and later I'd peel you off in sheets from chapped lips and the fogged windows of my hand-me-down chevrolet.
That night we stood in front of my house, your hands edging down the small of my back; for the first time my body felt like a topography; there would be hell to pay, later, but this was the first of many nights that I forced myself one final kiss and goodnight, goodnight, parting is such sweet sorrow.
It hasn't gotten any easier, and I'm pasting your pictures to my paper mache heart and telling stories and making obscene remarks in the space that your body leaves in my bed. As time goes by, you get better and better, I feel more and more, and goodbye becomes a conundrum and a question and a confine and I try to transcend you and you remind me of my facticty.
I fail, but keep trying. And that's what romance is, isn't it?
And in all the torn photographs, you are smiling. You are an autumn.
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