near as the harsh gust
piercing my
lobes,
sharp as dusk’s bite
on the ridge of
my nose,
red not from
the candy,
cold not
of your stare,
autumn’s come
calling-
its breath in
our hair.
hands in the garden
reflection + romance + release
near as the harsh gust
piercing my
lobes,
sharp as dusk’s bite
on the ridge of
my nose,
red not from
the candy,
cold not
of your stare,
autumn’s come
calling-
its breath in
our hair.
hands in the garden 