October has feigned her fangs and bitten only slightly this year. I am greedy with my desire of her and she seems content to starve me of her breezes and scented caress; the subtle touch of which has wrought the core of me into an unprintable fancy.
So desirous of her crinkled whispers and ardent mystery am I that even to hope for her return devastates. I reel with it upon inhalation and find myself shaking with it when any breath leaves my mouth.
It was only days ago that she was about me; her hungry eyes the sky and her gaping pupils the space between all stars. She was so close as to fill my lungs with her essence and sing to me secrets of her design. I ate of them and begged from her enough cold and dark and discovery to rend those things within me built from summer’s sunder deficient in their ownership of me.
We touched briefly, though for the brevity of it I was sent to stagger; her breeze of chilled kisses held within it those secret breaches set into me at the dawn of my present countenance whose deft application serves to open and dissect me.
As quickly as she had stepped into me, however, she stepped away. All things her domain, she placed her hand about my hopes long enough only to know them to be under her control. Her dearth is all that I can know without a press of effort and my soul bears the searing mark of the torture it is for me to spend even a moment now outside of her influence.
It is unnatural for her to be away from me right now. Those things that have shaped and moved me scream this into fact with each uttered iteration. I ache with the sort of dull immersion one might know if bereft of the blood of his veins and his own heart to move it.
I fear with every part of me that she will not return; that our twisting stone will fracture a subjugate figuration before I can even pose a hope to know her proximity and that even this may be untrue for my desires.
Into the night I shudder; only artifice can supplement my greed of her. Machines pipe for me the cold, a waxen wick her scent and a fettered melancholy the only factor I may rely upon to remind me that when she is near the entirety of my world is festooned with her stunning demeanor. At times I fear that she may become the only thing that I am capable of realizing with any magnitude.
It is in these times that I cower. It is in these times that I slip into a soft paralysis and insist to breathe, then out, until my fingertips tingle.
I mean, come on; 78 degrees? It was, like, 50 last week! I thought it was fucking hoodie time!!!