Autumn, I used to write you love songs. Your very own sonnets. I used to scrawl little ditties, scratch out lyrical miracles. I walked inner-city streets in the creaking dusk, look around, chalk the walls with my love for you. I wrote of you, I romanced you, I loved the way you swept in, shooed Summer out with the sweet of your cool. And then I left you for the suburbs.
But I still think of you. I think of lying in my own bed, fresh linen gracing the sheets, humming songs out of tune. My bones would ache from walking, or dancing into the smallest of hours. I'd climb into bed. And I would always, always leave a window open so you could creep in while I slept. I love the way you wrapped yourself around my limbs. The way you rushed across even the most scarce of my bare skin.
Autumn, I wrote you poems. I loved you. I love you still.